


A Song is a Weapon

by laceblade



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:07:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laceblade/pseuds/laceblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Season 3 AU. Quinn Fabray has vowed revenge on her father for being a close-minded WASP who kicked her out of the house when she got pregnant, & has spent all of high school plotting. She won't let anything stop her, even when her attempt to infiltrate Skull and Bones drags in her closely-knit group of friends, at their peril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks: to Steph for getting me to watch this show, and for being my first reader, for a wealth of detailed edits, and for telling me she’s looking forward to reading my fic more than season 4; to [sansastarks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sansastarks) for encouragement and edits; and finally, to [wintercreek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercreek) for being a very detailed-oriented, kind, and thorough beta. Thank you so much.

 

October, 2011

Lima, Ohio

 Excerpt from Yale application essay by Quinn Fabray:

 “Ultimately, the opportunity to attend Yale University will be a culmination of my academic and athletic talents, as well as my interest in drama and the arts. My father attended Yale University, and I can think of no finer way to better myself than by following in his footsteps.”

 Santana actually cackles. “This is fucking perfect. You get to use your dad’s status as an alumnus to get in, and he can’t say anything against it without admitting that he’s an asshole and left your family. Well played, Fabray. Well played.” She raises her hand for a high-five, and gets one.

Quinn reaches for the popcorn bowl in Santana’s lap, smirking a little.  
Curling herself around Santana’s arm, Brittany frowns. After taking a handful of popcorn, she says, “I don’t get it, are we playing a game? Can I play?”

Quinn smiles serenely. “Sure, B. You can be on my team - we’re totally gonna win.”

 

Late August, 2012

New Haven, Connecticut

The air isn’t as stuffy as her dorm room, but a dense humidity still hangs over Yale’s student organization fair. Upperclassmen sit behind tables with half-assed posters and sign-up sheets, trying to get new people to join their clubs. Most of the people meandering through the tables are freshmen like her, but there are some awkward-looking sophomores walking around who must not have found anything to be a part of last year.

Pushing past a throng of people, Quinn breaks away from the tables and finds a bench on the other side of the sidewalk. She sets a fistful of quarter-paper fliers down next to her, and tucks a shock of flyaway hair behind her ear. Her hair is finally past her shoulders again after she’d cut it short at Nationals, junior year.

A flier for the girls’ a capella group is above the one for the Lutheran church’s choir. She isn’t interested in actually joining any of these, though.

An attractive boy who reminds her of Sebastian Smythe approaches her bench. Her first instinct is to grab her cell phone and start texting Puck in order to make her disinterest clear, but then her eyes fall on the crest sewn on his jacket, and she thumbs her phone back off.

The boy walks right up to her and sticks his hand out, smiling at her and doing his best to ooze charisma.  
  
“Quinn Fabray, right?”  
  
Quinn has met a lot of people the last two weeks, but she knows that she has not met this boy before. Fixing a bemused expression on her face, she shakes his hand. “And what’s your name, Mr. Psychic?”  
  
“I’m Nick, but I’m no psychic,” he says, his smile almost wider than Sam’s but with way more teeth. He taps the insignia on the front of his coat. “Your dad was in Skull and Bones. Like me. Did he ever tell you that?”  
  
“Yeah, but we d--” she stops herself, and also forces herself to not bite her bottom lip. “Yes, he was.”

“Skull and Bones doesn’t have a table here, but I can talk to you about joining, if you’re interested.” He offers his hand to her, and she takes it, pulling herself up. The quarter-page fliers get left behind on the bench.

 

One Week Later

New York City, New York

Kurt shifts his paper grocery bag to his left hand while he sticks his key in the hole and attempts to enter his apartment. Rachel had thrown the dead-bolt, though.  
  
He lifts his eyebrows and gives a big smile to the peep hole while he waits for her to unlock the door.  
  
“Sorry Kurt, I beat you home today.” He hands her one of the bags.  
  
“It’s fine. So long as you don’t ever fall asleep and leave me out here on the stairwell…”  
  
“Never! I would never do that to you, Kurt!” she laughs. “That would be pretty funny, though…”  
  
Seeming appropriately chastised by his quick glare, Rachel changes tack. “Let’s see what the haul is today,” she says, setting his bags on the counter and opening the cupboard to get clean plates.  
  
"Sliced beets, cut-up turnips, sprouts, spinach, garlic scapes, and cherry tomatoes," he says, toeing off his shoes. "I'm so glad that you work at this place," says Rachel, referring to the hipster deli that is a vegan oasis in Manhattan. "Fresh vegetables are so expensive here, otherwise."  
  
"Me too," Kurt says, smiling. "Even if I have to wield a spork of justice to fight my co-workers for the leftovers."  
  
He slumps on to the couch, loosening his tie while Rachel arranges their salads on plates. Kurt picks up her cell phone from the arm of the couch, still slid open with the keypad out.  
"Quinn text you back yet?" An awkward silence follows, and Kurt realizes that Rachel had been humming, but has now stopped.  
  
"No," she says briskly, handing Kurt his plate, which has a cloth napkin underneath even though neither of them ever spill.  
  
Feeling sympathetic, he eyes her carefully, munching a beet drizzled with vinegar and olive oil. "You know, sometimes after graduation, some people just end up totally cutting everyone off…Quinn had a rough time in high school, maybe she just wants--"  
  
"I appreciate your concern, Kurt," she cuts him off. "Quinn's different," she adds, shortly. “The whole club was all really close…especially by the end of senior year. Quinn and I hung out all summer.”  
  
Kurt carefully sucks on the tines of his fork. _Sometimes Rachel needs to be pushed, and sometimes she reacts like a feral cat on steroids._  
  
"Well, maybe you could just double check? Call Santana or something. See if it’s just you, or if she’s really trying to cut her ties." Rachel exhales deeply, and Kurt becomes worried that she's finding it necessary to try meditative calming exercises during this conversation. (He doesn’t know many people who claim to practice meditation, but he’s pretty sure that Rachel is its most intense practitioner, and that nostril flares are not actually supposed to be part of the calming breathing.)  
  
"Things just don't make any sense. This isn’t me being a stalker, or making up a friendship that isn’t real, Kurt. We hung out _all summer long_. She texted me pictures of her dorm room every day after move-in until a week ago. Quinn isn't like…the rebellious girl who leaves for college and starts getting drunk every night just because she's away from her parents. She basically didn’t have parents for most of high school. I’m really worried about her. Like ready to call the police worried." she finishes.  
  
"I don’t think the police should be your _first_ call," he says mildly, taking her empty plate back to the sink.  
  
He leaves her frowning on the couch, and ends up smiling at soapy dishwasher when he hears her ask Siri to call Santana.

\--

Santana hesitates before picking up the phone. She’s already washed all of her makeup off her face, but sometimes Rachel has good stories and isn’t calling to ask her to ride three subway stops to their place. Like the time she called to tell her that Kurt had cornered her and asked if she had a terminal illness because she was shedding so much hair, as he couldn’t remember ever sharing a bathroom with a woman. They had laughed for ten minutes straight, while Kurt huffed in the background that cancer actually wasn’t funny.  
  
She picks up the cell and thumbs it on.  
  
"What?" she snaps into the phone. “I don’t have time to hang out tonight.”  
  
"Santana, I know that our friendship has only recently started blossoming, so perhaps it's irritating for me to be calling--"  
  
 _God, why use 5 words when you could use 57?_ "Spit it out, Berry."  
  
"I just.... have you heard from Quinn lately?" Rachel asks.  
  
"Q? We talked last week, before she was going to her school's club fair, or whatever the fuck it was. I haven't heard from her since then, but I just figured she was busy." It’s actually super weird not to hear from Q at least once every few days, but she doesn’t share this.  
  
"Right," says Rachel. "I just wonder.... have you ever gone this long without talking to her before? I'm worried that---"  
  
"Yes," says Santana acidly. "I've gone this long without talking to her before. What'd you say to her that set her off? Bitch is really sensitive, did you try talking about her dad? Beth?"  
  
"What? No!" Rachel squawks. "We've never gone this long without talking before. Since graduation, I mean."  
  
"Well, aren't you two special, then. Look, I haven't heard from Q, but it doesn't matter. She goes into bitch mode sometimes and there's fuck-all anybody can do about it. Just leave her alone for a few more days and she'll text you like nothing happened. Don't cry to me every time you're not the center of her world. Go walk around NYADA. Get laid. Get _Kurt_ laid if you're saving yourself for Fabray. Just don't bother me about this again."  
  
She hangs up before Rachel can start crying, and then sighs deeply. Britts would be mad at her if she had heard that conversation. Quinn hasn’t responded to Santana’s texts in about as long as she hasn’t replied to Berry’s. Sometimes Q goes MIA, but never to all of them at once. Glee people are overwhelming little shits, though. Santana doesn’t blame her for trying to meet some new people and turning her fucking cell off so that she can focus on starting new friendships.  
  
That’s what _she_ would be doing, if she hadn’t been a dumbass last year and not applied to any schools. (That’s not going to happen again next year. Santana pushes her big toe against the color-coded application instructions for colleges in New York City, which Rachel had arranged chronologically arranged by due date.)  
  
And good for Berry if this is the first time she and Quinn haven't talked every second of every day. But Quinn and Santana fight all the time. It doesn't mean anything, just that maybe Quinn likes Berry more as a friend lately.  
  
The fuck?  
  
She brushes it off, and stands to take her toiletry basket into the bathroom with her for the evening facial regimen. This entire apartment is about the size of a closet, so the bathroom is just a shower, a sink, and a toilet, with no cupboards.  
  
Her phone buzzes and she picks it up, contemplating how to threaten violence against Rachel using emoticons. Instead, it's a text message from Puckerman:  
"What crawled up Quinn's ass and died? Bitch hasn’t texted me back in over a week."  
  
Her irrational frustration with Rachel dissipates instantly. She sets the phone down and frowns at it.

 

3 Hours Later

Kurt calls Santana around 10:30pm - Rachel had disappeared from their apartment. Her packet of train tickets was lying in the middle of her bed, with one ticket torn out.  
  
“Are you three meeting up in New Haven or something? Rachel didn’t call anyone else after you, but she left, and some of her train tickets are gone.”  
  
“No,” says Santana. “God, she’s such an annoying piece of shit. I told her to leave Quinn alone, so what does she do? Packs a bag and runs after her. Quinn could be hooking up with a guy! And now Berry will show up at her dorm asking why she won’t return her asinine texts.”  
  
Kurt lets all of the swipes at Rachel pass, knowing that if he starts something, Santana absolutely will not focus. “Actually, I don’t think she packed a bag. Her day bag is still in the bottom of her closet. Anyway, I just assumed that you were going, too, and I wanted to check to make sure that’s where she actually went. If you want one of her tickets, I could meet you at the train station….. They’re cheaper out of the package than if you buy them there.”  
  
Santana’s quiet for a moment, and Kurt waits. Santana had left her cheerleading scholarship for New York City, using her mom’s money. She had refused to live with Rachel and Kurt, and at his advice Rachel hadn't badgered her about it. Even though she Skypes with Brittany every night, loneliness has made her a frequent visitor at Kurt and Rachel's. Still, he knows that any verbal acknowledgment of feelings will cause her to lash out.  
  
“Whatever, Hummel. Meet me at Grand Central.”  
  
Kurt let his smile seep into his voice. “See you in 10, Santana.”

 

New Haven, Connecticut

 Rachel steps off the train. As the other passengers slowly tug their luggage down the steps, she walks quickly away, almost bouncing. She has traveled with a wallet and her cell phone, and nothing else. She hadn’t even left a note for Kurt. Her phone hums, and she whips it out, hoping for Quinn. She is at first disappointed as she reads:

 

Kurt Hummel, 10:13pm

Santana’s following you on the next train. She’s jealous because you’re important to Quinn. If you tell her I texted you this, I will kill you.

 

The last sentence makes her laugh, even if he’s being flippant. Kurt seems to think Rachel had taken the train to Yale for a sleepover, or something. She tucks her phone away again. Countless conversations with her dads and her therapist float through her mind, reminding her about _overreacting_ and _jumping to conclusions_.

She balls her fists. She doesn’t want Quinn to be in any kind of trouble, but she knows that something is very wrong, and that nobody will believe her or help her unless she gets proof.

Filing a missing person’s report was out of the question, though, at least according to Kurt. _“Oh my God Rachel, you haven’t even tried calling her mom. Just because she hasn’t texted you or Santana doesn’t mean that she’s dead or missing. It just means that she’s meeting new people at college. That’s NORMAL.”_

Rachel will ride a train to New Haven, but she is not about to try and have a conversation with Judy Fabray.

They haven’t visited each other yet, but Quinn had sent her specific instructions on how to get to her dorm even before she’d moved to New Haven. Rachel had been wondering how to get inside of Quinn’s building, but it turns out not to be a problem, as some undergrad leaving the building smiles and holds the door open for her, as though she lived there too.  
 _This is exactly how Quinn got abducted! Think about the security of your fellow dorm-mates!_ She smiles at him instead, and slips inside. She doesn’t want to make a scene.  
Yet.

 

A conversation with Quinn’s roommate Stephanie reveals that Quinn hasn’t been in her room or in class for the last 6 days. Some girl down the hall had been the last one on the floor to see Quinn and she’d seen her at the student org fair, talking to a boy in Skull and Bones. Stephanie had talked to their floor’s RA, who had told her not to worry, that it’s normal for people who join Skull and Bones to go on frequent retreats, and that her schoolwork wouldn’t suffer.

Rachel has no idea how much Quinn likes her roommate, but given how long it takes Quinn to open up (if ever), Rachel tries to make it seem like she’s concerned, but not overly worried, so that she doesn’t freak her out or cause awkward conversations later.

“Well,” says Stephanie, “I’m going to a party that one of the girls down the hall is throwing. If you want to leave Quinn a note, go ahead.” She smiles at Rachel, seeming unperturbed at leaving Rachel alone in her dorm room: something Rachel would never do.

“Skull & Bones, do they have a house somewhere, like a frat?” asks Rachel.

“No, but this guy and I spent one of our classes looking them up on Wikipedia. They have an island about 6 hours away that they use for retreats, and there’s a tomb on campus that they use for meetings. It’s kind of weird, but I guess the tomb isn’t as creepy as it sounds. It’s on this block, actually, just south of here.”

Rachel nods, memorizing every detail but pretending to not be very interested.

“Anyway, I’m going to that party. Nice meeting you.”

“Yes, you too!” says Rachel, as Stephanie slips out the door. It’s pretty apparent that Stephanie thinks she’s made out on a single room, and doesn’t give a rip about Quinn.

Rachel touches Quinn’s bed, straightening the pillow. Her eyes fall across Quinn’s desk, all of which is in order. There’s a pile of CDs she can’t live without in case her computer crashes. There are three neat rows of well-loved paperbacks, plus a few that look brand-new, obviously for her classes.

There’s a handwritten letter lying next to a closed laptop, addressed to Tina. Rachel chews her bottom lip and then reads it - typical, details about classes, the campus, and how much she misses Glee. She asks Tina to say hi to Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pilsbury for her - the same instructions aren’t included for Artie or Sam or Brittany, because Rachel knows she still talks to them and it’s unnecessary for Tina to do it on her behalf.

There isn’t really anything else to look at. A closet full of Quinn’s clothes. A basket with Quinn’s toiletries for her trips to the communal bathroom. A collection of makeup and hair accessories. Jewelery.

She flips Quinn’s laptop open. The screen asks for a password, though. Rachel tries Beth, and a few other names. Her favorite songs. Nothing.

She only has one clue. It’s 11pm on a Friday night, but she’s already here at Yale, and she doesn’t want to go back to New York unless she’s done everything she can.

She texts Santana:

 

Rachel Berry*, 11:15pm

Santana, Quinn’s roommate hasn’t seen her in a week but her RA downplayed it. Meet me on the bench outside her dorm room when you get here.

 

She hesitates, and then sends another text before Santana can write back:

 

Rachel Berry* 11:16pm

If something happens to me, I’m checking out Skull & Bones; Quinn was last seen with one of their members. RA think she’s on a S&B “retreat.”

 

Rachel gets up to leave. She almost walks through the door, but then she steps back and takes one of Quinn’s necklaces. It’s a cross, but Rachel doesn’t really care. It’s Quinn’s. She fastens it around her neck.

 

There’s an ominous-looking tomb half a block away, just like Stephanie said there would be. Nobody is standing around outside of it, so Rachel slips through a creepy (but unlocked) wrought iron fence, walks right up to the weathered, painted wooden door, and knocks on it.

She’s answered with silence. She tries the door knob, but the door is locked.

She is not leaving without knowing where Quinn is.

She knocks again, pounding with her tiny fist. “HEY! IS THERE ANYONE THERE?!” She pounds her fist a few times more. Some kids on the sidewalk across the street titter at her. Her voice isn’t as loud outside as it would be inside - and this building looks like it might have fantastic acoustics on the other side of the door.

She waits again, pondering whether belting out a song would get someone’s attention. Or maybe there’s just nobody here. Just as she’s deciding whether Don’t Rain on My Parade would be the most appropriate, the door is flung open, and a boy with a crew-cut appears, looking irritated at first, but then breaking out into a smile as his eyes fall on her.

“Hi there, beautiful, can I help you?”

Her cheeks flush a little bit - no matter the circumstance, compliments always overwhelm her. Years of slushies in the face will do that.  
 _Focus, Rachel._

“I certainly hope that you can,” she says, smiling at him. “I’m looking for my friend, Quinn. We were supposed to hang out this weekend, but she’s not in her dorm room.”

His face betrays no recognition when she says Quinn’s name, but she waits before offering any more information to see what he’ll give her.

“What made you come looking here? And what’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Her roommate said that she joined your club at the student org fair,” says Rachel, ignoring his second question and focusing on Quinn.

“Well we’re in a meeting right now. It’s part of our welcome week for new members to Skull and Bones,” he said. “I know it’s late on a Friday night, but Quinn really is busy, so she can’t come and see you. I’m really sorry that Quinn made plans with you, she wasn’t supposed to. I’m sure she’ll call you as soon as our retreat is over.”

“Oh, perfect!” claps Rachel. “And what time this evening will that be?”

The boy is clearly becoming annoyed, now. “Not tonight. It’s going to last the rest of the weekend. It takes longer for different people.”

Rachel’s eyes narrow. There is nothing about this that doesn’t scream WRONG. She wants to get Quinn and leave, maybe even take her back to New York. Quinn had never even expressed an interest in joining a club like this. She finds it very unlikely that Quinn actually wants to be there.

Deciding that she didn’t care how much of a scene she made (and really, when did Rachel ever care about making too big of a scene?), she balls her fists and tips her head back.

“QUINN!” she bellows. There is no way that anyone inside the creepy tomb building couldn’t hear her.

The crew-cut boy smiled at her, unimpressed. “Listen, Miss, what did you say your name was? Quinn’s busy right now. She’s not going to come to the door.”

Her phone vibrates, and she ignores it.

“Quinn seems to have ‘been busy’ for an entire week. Please let me see her, I need to talk to her.”

Her phone vibrates again, insistent. Listening to her gut, she pulls it out of her pocket with two fingers.

She almost drops it when she sees Quinn’s name back-lit on the screen, and she thumbs over to read her text.

“Like I said, Quinn is busy,” the guy continues as she reads the text on the screen, sounding annoyed that she’s looking at her phone now.

 

Quinn Fabray, 11:47pm

Rachel, do not tell Nick who you are, or anything about you. Walk away.

 

She feels fear spread, hot in her stomach. She tips the cell phone toward her chest, exhaling deeply, suddenly paranoid that Nick saw the screen even though he couldn’t have.  
Nick assumes she was directing the noise of frustration at him. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t help you the way you want me to.”

Her eyes rest on the crest on his shirt, which she hadn’t noticed before: Skull & Bones. _Well, they have their own tomb. Of course they have their own crest._ “If you tell me your name, I can tell Quinn that you were asking about her.” He smiles easily, like she should trust him.

Still, Quinn’s text. She also notes that it’s the third time in this conversation that he’s asked her for her name.

She breathes deeply through her nose. She has no idea what is going on, or why Quinn is sending her such a creepy text after a week-long silence, or WHY Quinn can’t just come outside and talk to her, but she trusts Quinn wholeheartedly.

Right, then. Acting.

Rachel smiles. “I know that you would help me if you could; you’re so sweet! I’ll just go home for the night, I guess. I’m sure that Quinn will call me as soon as she can. Thank you so much for your help! I hope that you have a good night!”

She turns and smartly walks away from the building, back toward Quinn’s dorm. It would be weird for him to ask for her name a fourth time, and borderline creepy. Still, she’s afraid that he’s going to do it anyway, so she doesn’t turn back. She hears the huge door close as he goes back inside.

Her phone vibrates again, and she thumbs it open immediately.

 

Quinn Fabray, 11:52pm

Rachel, someone is going to follow you. Don’t let them see anyone else or know your name. Don’t go to the train station. I will call you tomorrow. I’m sorry.

 

Rachel stops walking, eyes narrowing and breath quickening.

There are a few people walking back to their dorms on the other side of the street, but they’re talking normally, drunkenly. Everyone but her is part of a group. She knows it’s not midnight yet, there’s no way Santana is even here. But once she is, what is Rachel supposed to do, if she can’t go by Santana and she can’t go home?

 

Quinn Fabray, 11:53pm

Don’t stop walking. Don’t let them catch up with you, don’t let them talk to you. I’m sorry this is so weird, please just trust me, Rachel. I promise to talk to you tomorrow somehow.

 

Her first thought is distracted, noting that even though she was texting directly to her, Quinn still used her name, just as though she were speaking with her face to face. She knew it would still help calm Rachel down.

Then Rachel reflects more on what Quinn had actually said, and she feels fear. Where is she supposed to go?

 _Don’t let them see anyone else_ , like Quinn knew that Santana could be there, too, or maybe she was assuming Kurt came with her. If Santana followed Rachel’s text instructions, she was going to be waiting on the bench outside Quinn’s dormitory.

_Can’t go there. Can’t go to the train station, either._

She turns away from the dorms, so that she won’t run into Santana. Unsure of what to do, she crosses the street so that she’s opposite the Skull and Bones tomb and walks like she knows where she’s going.

It’s impossible to tell if anyone’s following her because kids her age are both walking toward the dorms coming back from house parties, and also away from the dorms going home after dorm parties. She doesn’t think anyone is, though. Still, Quinn’s text said _someone is going to follow you_ , not that someone _might_ but someone _would_.

Everything is just so weird, and she wishes she could call Kurt or Santana, but if she isn’t supposed to let anyone know her name or see Santana, then she probably shouldn’t talk to anyone on the phone, either. Quinn must not want anyone in Skull and Bones to know who she is.

It’s almost midnight, and she’s alone in the dark in a city she’s never been in. If she can just get away, maybe she can find a restaurant that’s still open and text Santana to come and meet her. Restaurants will be closed, though… and she’s not going to be able to get into a bar this late at night without an ID. Maybe she should have allowed Noah to procure one for her, like he had offered in July.

_Focus._

She’s beyond campus now, or at least she is beyond the dorms. It’s hard to tell if the buildings around her are businesses or buildings that held classes. There isn’t constant chatter all around her anymore - she’s alone. Hopefully.

She’s too afraid to turn around and check that nobody is behind her, because she doesn’t know what she will do if someone is following her. She pulls a hair tie out of her pocket and pulls her hair into a ponytail, drawing her hair away from her ears.

She sees a bank up ahead, with an ATM sticking out of the wall. The bank is closed, obviously, but the building is a wall of glass, with one angled panel at the end that should allow her to look behind her.

She forces herself to walk at a normal pace, not speeding up or slowing down as she approaches the bank. If someone is following her, it wouldn’t do for them to know she is about to run before she starts.

Right? Was running even the best option?

_You don’t even know if someone’s there yet. Breathe, Rachel. Breathing always gives you control._

She’s at the bank. She looks, very quickly, into the angled panel of glass. She can clearly see a boy about as big as Finn and as muscular as Noah 30 feet behind her, in a suit coat like Nick’s, and jeans.

There is nothing else to do. She breaks into a sprint and turns the first corner she sees. As soon as she starts, she can hear shoes slapping the pavement behind her.

Finn had played sports, and when they went on runs together, he used to talk about going at a slower pace for a longer workout. As much as she had loved spending time with Finn, she had hated their runs together. She wanted to tear through the route and get there, be there, end the grueling ordeal. The destination was the most important part.

Which is to say. She can run and she knows she’s faster than the guy behind her, but she knows that he was built for endurance, just like Puck and Finn, and he will overtake her if she can’t find a way to ditch him.

She is deeply thankful that she hadn’t waited to pack any bags in New York. If she had so much as a purse on her right now, she would have already had to drop it.

Somehow her mind is turning these complex logical thoughts, but the rest of her body is buzzing with fear.

She should have turned toward campus to begin with, and run where she knew there were other people.

But she hadn’t, and if she did a 180 now, she would be caught.

 _Why is he running after me anyway?! Why would Quinn tell me where not to go, but not where to go?_ What a waste of a text.

“Please just talk to me,” the male voice behind her grunts. “Just need to talk to you really quick, please.”

Rachel doesn’t bother to respond - she doesn’t want to waste any air.

_Air, keep sucking it down. Control comes from breathing, don’t stop, don’t waste it._

Everything in downtown New Haven is shut-up office buildings. Where were the _people?!_ She had apparently gotten used to New York City after only two and a half months of living there. Being in a space with no other visible people makes her feel anxious, out of control. There are no spectators, no audience - nobody who can help her.

She has to be getting close to the harbor - once she gets there, she has no idea what she will do. She could bank right or left, but eventually she was going to run out of her sprint-pace, and then he’d catch her.

“I just need to talk to you, little girl. Please just let me tell you more about where Quinn is.”

Rachel’s head whips around when he said Quinn’s name. “I am _not_ a little girl!” she snaps. While her head is turned, she doesn’t get a good look at the guy’s face, but she realizes that there is metal glinting off his hip.

 _Oh my God, is that a gun?!_ She almost trips, but catches herself, ending up losing a couple feet of distance between the two of them.

Desperate, she fakes going right, and then banks left, hard. She almost screams when she realizes that this is a dead end, and the street ends with a chain-link fence. Well, a fence and some plywood boards leaning against it that would probably support her weight, but not his.

Is there even enough distance between her and her tail to allow her to scale the fence without giving him enough time to grab her feet and pull her back down?

There’s no time to turn around and check, so she runs harder, making herself gain as much speed as she can before reaching the cheap plywood and doing her best to run up it like a cat, not too heavy. She hunches over as she reaches the top, grabbing the top of the fence with her fingers and letting herself walk her feet down the other side.

Her tail reaches the plywood and charges up, immediately punching his right leg through the plywood from the knee down.

He yells, “Fuck!” while Rachel turns and runs straight into some bramble, pushing forward anyway because if she makes it through, he won’t be able to see where she’s going. It’ll take him a minute or two to pull his leg out, and run around the block to her side.

Out through the brush, she stops short, realizing that after the sharp gravel decline, there’s the harbor. There’s traffic to her left, headlights following the curved road to a bridge that goes over the water.

Not sure how else to lose her follower, she slides down the gravel toward the dark water, doing her best to control her fall. She’s still breathing hard, and she can feel scratches on her arms and her face protesting against the open air.

At the water’s edge, she allows herself three panting breaths, trying to make each one as long as she can, even though she is terrified that her tail is going to appear any minute.

 _Solo. Let’s do this._  
She sucks in a final deep breath and slips under the water ( _the water is freezing!_ ), taking care not to splash, and then kicks as hard as she can, propelling herself downward into a dive, taking care not to break the surface.

She has no idea if he’s even going to think about the water as a possibility or not. If he does, no matter how long she can hold her breath, he’s going to find her easily.

She wants to surface, but she doesn’t, pushing herself further.

She can feel a burning in her chest, and panic rising.

_You’re going to get air, just wait, please wait._

She kicks again, pushing her body forward as many precious inches as she can.

She finally surfaces, lifting as little of her head out of the water as possible and tries to breathe in deeply without gasping.

Her body wants the air desperately, immediately, and she forces herself to take slow, easy breaths, making as little noise possible.

_This is an excellent breath control exercise, actually._

She can hear heavy footsteps jogging back and forth on the gravel. Looking up, she realizes that she has made it to the underside of the bridge.

“I don’t know where you are, little girl, but if you can hear me, just stay the fuck away from Quinn if you don’t want to die.”

Rachel focuses on her breath, every exhalation sending tiny lines of ripples away from her lips.

 

12:45am

 

Santana sits on the bench outside of Quinn’s dorm with her legs crossed, arms crossed, looking pissed off. Rachel’s first text had been clear, but her second one was fucking useless. _If something happens to me_ , my ass. What the fuck was she supposed to do with that? How long should she wait before deciding something had happened?

She had already sent Brittany to sleep with a string of dirty text messages, some of her better work, she thought smugly. She slips her hand into her pocket, ready to thumb it on and try texting Puck.

She realizes that she can hear someone breathing heavily and approaching her.  
  
 _Fuck! What if it’s some fucking weirdo._ She looks around for a stick or something - there are trees around - but sees none. Fucking Yale and its well-kept lawns. There’s nothing for it. She waits, 911 dialed into her phone with her thumb hovering over “send.”  
  
She finally looks over her should and saw a slight figure, completely soaked and dripping water all over the sidewalk.  
  
“Christ! Rachel?!” she shrieks. “Rachel, what the  fuck?”  
  
Rachel had been using shaking hands to pull her dripping her hair out of her face. Water sluices off her nose, her chin. Her mouth is open, sucking in air. She tries to shush Santana, and then coughs harshly.  
  
“Shhhh,” she hisses, frantic. “Be quiet, don’t let them hear you, please don’t let them come here,” she begs.  
  
“ _Who?_ ” asks Santana, walking forward now to squeeze water off Rachel’s mane of hair, while Rachel uselessly bunches her soaking shirt and squeezes it, wringing the water out.

“I couldn’t text you, my phone’s full of water - it won’t turn on. I couldn’t get you away-”

Santana unzips her overnight bag and pulls out a zip-up hoodie and says, “Take your shirt off and put this on. Last thing I need is Hummel blaming me for you getting sick.”  
  
Rachel complies while Santana arches an eyebrow to make sure nobody’s watching, shucking off her t-shirt quickly, and pulling the zipped sweatshirt over her head, further muffling her already low voice.  
  
“I can’t....think. We need to get out of here, fast. Somewhere, I don’t know - anywhere, please San--, just take me. Quinn said - we can’t go to the dorm. We can’t let anyone see us. Don’t say anyone’s name again, please.” She’s still sucking air down like it’s going to stop being there.  
  
Santana is seriously wigged now. Rachel is just genuine, raw emotion. There is no pretense of performance or disturbing narcissism here. Just Rachel. Terrified.  
  
“I’ll.... call a cab, it can take us to the train station.”  
  
“No train, we can’t go to the train station, Quinn said.” She scrubs at her face with her palms.

“Wait, so you talked to Q? Where is she?”

“I can’t… I’ll tell you everything when we get somewhere to spend the night. I need to just... fall apart. We have to tell K—my roommate, though,” she says, suddenly urgent. “If they figure out who I am. She said not to let them see me, not to let them hear my name. I can’t... he had a gun,” she says, her voice lowering back to its normal register now. “He said if I ever come after Quinn again, he would kill me.”  
  
Santana steps forward, concerned and disturbed. She takes Rachel’s hand and rubs the back of it with her thumb while she calls a cab. Then she leads Rachel to a street bench to wait for the cab, while calling Kurt, making various threats until he agrees to her demands.  
  
Santana hangs up and looks at Berry, who’s looking beyond the street light’s reach, flinching every time the wind moves.

“Don’t you have a bag?” she asks, wondering if she should hold her hand or something.

“I didn’t bring one,” Rachel mumbles. “I didn’t want to take the time to pack one. I thought…I couldn’t waste any time, if I could find Quinn-” her voice breaks on Quinn’s name, and Santana feels sympathetic and annoyed at the same time. What the fuck is she supposed to do if Berry cries all over her? She isn’t Kurt, or Finn. She doesn’t do emotional releases.

Rachel doesn’t cry, though. After her voice cracks, she just covers her lips with the tips of her fingers, and falls silent. She leans into Santana, though, eventually resting her sodden head on her shoulder.

Santana doesn’t shrug her off, figuring the girl’s had enough for one night.  
  
Finally, the cab pulls up. The wash of the headlights reveal how pale and strung-out Rachel is. The cab driver is looking slack-jawed, so Santana says,  
“Oh my God, roofies and then this bitch fell in the water. Guys are such pigs. Can you take us to a motel? There is no way we are sleeping at my boyfriend’s frat tonight and that asshole is the one who picked us up from Columbia.”  
  
“Uhh, yeah, sure.” The cab driver shifts the car into drive.  
  
In the motel room, Santana leads Rachel to the bathroom while Rachel tells her in a dull monotone everything that happened that night. Santana has no idea what to think, let alone what to say. But Rachel’s body is freezing and it’s really creeping her out to hear Rachel talking and not feel annoyed, so first things first.  
  
“You’ll feel so much better after you shower. Just do it, and we’ll figure this shit out in the morning.”  
  
Rachel stares at the shower. Santana frowns.  
  
“Berry. Shower. You got this?”  
  
Rachel’s eyes focus. She looks at Santana and just breaks, sobbing. “Oh my God, Quinn.”

Santana hugs her once, firmly, and then helps her tug her wet clothes off. She tries not to look at Rachel because: so not the time - also, Brittany. But. God, the girl is like, all legs.

 _Get it together, Santana._  
She clicks the door shut behind her as she looks for a spot to hang Rachel’s jeans and bra to dry.  
  
Berry showers, and then Santana uses the bathroom just to scrub her face (it was a waste to re-apply her makeup to come here, apparently).

When Santana pads back into the room, she can see Rachel’s back shaking under the sheet, although she isn’t making any noise. Santana slips under the covers. She hesitates. The only person she’s ever comforted before was Brittany, and Brittany was all about physicality and touch. Inhaling just a bit, she slides her arm over Rachel’s stomach possessively, keeping her hand well away from Rachel’s underwear. Her lips are touching Rachel’s hair while she whispers, “Shhh, baby. It’ll be okay.”  
  
At first, Berry cries harder. Then she draws some shaky deep breaths, and then some calmer ones. Her breathing evens out and Santana assumes she’s drifted off, but Rachel turns over so they’re facing each other. Santana draws her arm back quickly.

Rachel has on her pre-competition Glee Captain face.  
  
“Quinn is our teammate and our friend. I don’t understand what Skull and Bones is, or why she’s with them, but we’re going to get them somehow. All of them! I don’t want to be afraid of them.”  
  
Santana smiles broadly. “Thatta girl, Berry.” She leans forward to kiss her forehead, and Rachel’s eyes close as she does. They fell asleep that way, curled toward each other.

 --  
  
Finn picks up his phone at the ass-crack of dawn. The name display says“Kurt Hummel,” but after an initial “FINN OH MY GOD,” it just sounds like an angry bird squawking.  
  
“Dude! Slow down. I can’t even understand you.” He can almost hear Kurt rolling his eyes.  
  
“Quinn went missing....”  
  
“What--”  
  
“Just wait. It gets better. I mean not better, but more complicated. Quinn stopped responding to text messages. I thought she was just trying to move on and make new friends, but Rachel went to New Haven to try and find her. And Santana. Someone told Rachel they’d last seen her with someone from Skull and Bones...”  
  
“Like that horrible movie you made me...”  
  
“With Joshua Jackson and Paul Walker, yes. Rachel tried to go to get into their creepy tomb - THEY HAVE THEIR OWN TOMB, WHO DOES THAT - and her questions about Quinn were apparently not okay. BECAUSE THEN SOME GUY CHASED HER INTO THE HARBOR AND HE HAD A GUN.” Finn tries to interject, but Kurt won’t let him. “Santana found her somehow. They’re staying in a motel tonight, Santana paid cash. But they threatened her, Finn. And we still don’t know where Quinn is. Santana forbade me from calling the cops, everything is so weird. She’s convinced there’s some kind of conspiracy....I’m waiting for them to come home so that everything will make sense.”

“Is…is Rachel okay?” he asks.

“I think so,” says Kurt. “I’ve only talked to Santana. It was so weird talking to her, she didn’t insult me or Rachel for the entire phone call! But it’s so scary, God. She told me to lock the door and not leave until she gets here. She told me to tell work that I have mono! She said they might be watching the apartment waiting for Rachel!”  
  
“Oh my God… Will Rachel be okay?”

“I don’t know, FINN, but I’m sure that you are concerned about _my_ well-being as well.”

“Dude. Of course I’m worried about you. But like…do they know who Rachel is, or something?”

“I don’t know. But this is the scariest I’ve ever heard Santana. She said if I’m not here when she gets back with Rachel, she’ll kill me herself. We are _out of soy milk!_ ”  
  
“Umm. I guess you’d better just do it. They’ll probably be there later today. Santana is really scary. But maybe she’ll chill out once she gets there?”  
  
“Finn, what if she’s right? What if this is real?”  
  
He hesitated. Then he said, “Look, if you want me to come there, I will leave right now and do it.”  
  
“Don’t do that. I know you can’t leave until Thanksgiving.”  
  
“It’s.... now’s not the best time to talk about this, but I hate it here, Kurt. Some of the guys are really fucked up, and it’s like it’s all one big dick-measuring contest. Mom keeps talking about how messed up the tire shop is with your dad in DC. Maybe it’s better for me to leave....”

Kurt is adamant. “Finn. Don’t do that yet. Let’s wait for Santana to come back. If we need you, I will call you. I promise.”  
  
“Umm. Can I tell Puck? He and Rachel kind of talk a lot. He talks even more with Quinn.”  
  
“Yes... Actually, see when the last time was he heard from Quinn, I mean exact time and date. Ask him if she ever mentioned Skull and Bones. I’ll call Mercedes. And then I’ll call Tina too, just to see if she has any ideas. Ask him for…anything that seemed off about Quinn.”  
  
“Okay,” says Finn. “Umm. This is really intense.”  
  
Kurt laughs, but it doesn’t sound like his normal laugh - a little more breathless. “Right? I thought things were supposed to be easier after school.”  
  
“Yeah. Well, so. Let me know what happens when they get back. And umm…. I know you don’t like to tell me things about Rachel, but I’m really worried about her right now.” He’s kicking the foot of his bed softly. Kurt had bitched A LOT about being “the informer to both sides,” and had started refusing to give Rachel and Finn information about each other. Kurt’s quiet on the other end, though, so Finn continues awkwardly,

“And Quinn. And just…everyone.”

“I know you are. I’ll let you know. I… do feel better, after talking to you.”  
  
Finn smiles. “Hey man, we’re brothers. That’s what we do.”

 

New York City, New York

  
Santana and Rachel return to the Hummelberry apartment to find Kurt in an immaculate kitchen, laundry all clean, dried, and put away, even Rachel’s underwear. There are two pitchers of iced tea (one caffeinated, one herbal). He hands Rachel a Luna bar as soon as she walks in the door, which she takes with a relieved sob.

Santana and Kurt make eye contact over the top of Rachel’s head, and something passes between them.

“I’ve done my best to put everyone’s last text messages or e-mails or whatevers with Quinn in chronological order,” Kurt says briskly, putting his hand on Rachel’s arm to guide her to the couch while Santana checks the hallway before closing and dead-bolting the door. “All of the conversations seemed normal. I tried to push everyone to see if there’s anything we never knew about, about Yale or Skull and Bones, or whatever.”

“Kurt, you’ve done so much!” exclaims Rachel.

“Yes,” he smiles. “Well, I was freaking out a little, and I couldn’t leave my own apartment,” he gives a dark look to Santana. “So Mercedes and Artie had two different stories I hadn’t known about, and I think they’re more revealing if I tell them in reverse order.”

“Hit me, Hummel,” says Santana,opening up the fridge to see if any of their vegan crap is palatable. _Vegan bagels are still bagels, right?_

“Right. So, Artie said he was always a little weirded out by how adamant Quinn was about walking as soon as humanly possible at the end of senior year. After her accident, she struggled, and he thought all of that was normal. But every time it ever came up, Quinn would say that she had to learn how to walk again ‘so that she could go to Yale.’ And Artie pointed out that didn’t make any sense. Yale’s ADA compliant. They have an active disability center for students. And… well, Artie said that sometimes people who don’t actually know disabled people don’t understand how life can go on if you use a wheelchair or something. But Quinn was friends with Artie, and she knows that being in a wheelchair doesn’t mean you can’t go to school. So mostly… He thought her one-mindedness was pretty strange, and unlike Quinn.”

Santana automatically feels a little defensive on Quinn’s behalf, like of course she wanted to walk again, she’s a fucking Cheerio and wanted to dance with Glee, but whatever.

Rachel chews her lip. “Okay. What did Mercedes say?”

“So, Quinn and Mercedes had never talked much until Mercedes took her in after her dad kicked her out when she was pregnant with Beth. But basically, Mercedes said that Quinn talked a lot while she was still pregnant about how she was going to get back at her dad. Sometimes Mercedes would ask her what she meant, but Quinn never said. And even though she never got into specific, Quinn was pretty adamant and hardcore about it. Like, Mercedes thought it was weird, even for how much of a jerk her dad was. Then, after Beth was born and Quinn calmed down a little bit, she was always really distant from Mercedes for the rest of high school, especially given how much Mercedes had done for her.”

Santana opens her mouth, ready to defend Quinn, but ends up just saying, “Like maybe she was embarrassed?”

“Maybe,” Kurt says. “Or maybe she didn’t want her to know she was still thinking about it, so she pushed her away.”

“I don’t understand how the two stories are related,” says Rachel.

“Quinn’s dad went to Yale,” says Santana. Rachel still looks blank. “Quinn’s going to Yale for drama, but her dad was all pre-law and shit. Still, he was in Skull and Bones. I remember her being really creeped out when we watched _The Departed_ together.”

“What does Skull and Bones DO, exactly?”

“They started the CIA,” says Kurt. “People think that they control the federal government.”

“But sometimes they get tied up in weird shit,” says Santana. “It’s like a good old boys club of assholes who get power and try to rule the world with it.”

“Okay, but why would Quinn want to go to Yale so badly if she hated her dad so much? And why did she think she couldn’t do it in a wheelchair?”

Kurt is smiling serenely, waiting for them to figure it out.

“Did she want to retrace her father’s footsteps so that she could make her peace with him?” asks Rachel.

“Fuck no,” says Santana, and her smile is feral. “Bitch is going to bring these motherfuckers down.”


	2. Chapter 2

New Haven, Connecticut  
Skull & Bones Tomb, night of Rachel's trip to find Quinn

Quinn starts to shove her cell phone back down her bra as soon as she finishes her last text to Rachel. Nick didn't even have the balls to search her. Ironic, him being part of a secret society that's hell-bent on keeping her isolated during this retreat and all. It makes the week a bit of a joke.

She takes a moment to look around the room again, although by now she's pretty familiar with most of the building - "the tomb," as everyone calls it. The building is over a century old, the walls made of stone. There's not going to be much she can do to protect Rachel's identity. She hopes to God that Santana or Kurt followed Rachel here and can help her. She's pretty sure Santana will have.

Nick blusters through the door, looking over and around Quinn, as though to make sure she hasn't moved while he had been gone.

"Do you know who was just here?" he asks.

"No," says Quinn, allowing annoyance to creep into her voice (not difficult). "You told me to wait here. How could I?"

It's pretty obvious that while Quinn can easily take dominance in a conversation; Nick must never have been popular in high school because he concedes it easily.

"You know what I...well anyway, I think that you know the girl who came to the door."

"Okay," she says, smiling at him like he's a doofus. "I didn't _see_ her, so how can I tell you whether or not I know her?"

Nick seems annoyed. _God, this is an easy game to play._

"She's short," he says. "Dark brown hair? Big bambi eyes?"

"Oh, God," she drawls. "That girl is _so_ obnoxious. She's trying to contact her birth mother....Shelby. Shelby adopted Beth - the baby I had my sophomore year....." She waits a beat, for emotional gravity. She's spent the last three years processing _baby feelings_ , but she'll take the opportunity to get some more sympathy from Nick. "She knows that I know how to find Shelby. She's obsessed."

"She said that you two had plans," says Nick.

"Oh, I'm sure she did," says Quinn. "She always shows up and tells people that we were going to hang out, like she thinks I'll give her the information she wants by embarrassing me."

"What's her name?" asks Nick.

Rachel's identity was known to Skull and Bones the minute she'd let Nick see her downstairs. Even if Quinn pretends she doesn't know Rachel's name, Nick is going to figure it out anyway. Giving Nick Rachel's name will make him trust her more, and finding out Shelby really is Rachel's birth mother will do even more to cement that. Best of all, giving it up nonchalantly looks like she couldn't care less whether Skull and Bones knows who Rachel is.

"Her name is Rachel Berry," she says, doing her best to sound bored even though she's still a little concerned she's made the wrong choice.

"This kind of interruption from someone in your personal life doesn't make you look very good, Fabray." He's chiding her like he's a professor trying to tell her to do better in his class. The paternalism isn't lost on her. This kid is only one year older than she is, and he's already practiced in how to be a lecturing jerk. "We can only move you along to the next phase if we know you're unattached, and that nobody's going to notice you being gone for days or weeks at a time."

Obviously Quinn isn't as unattached as Skull and Bones would like her to be. She has so many friends who notice and care when she's not around... she had been taken by surprise by the immediate week-long retreat that she's on right now, or she certainly would have told her New Directions friends she was going to be gone. Giving them a head's up for the future is doable, though.

She also finds it hilarious that Nick keeps using the word "we" as if he's going to have any influence in the decision to further her application. But she can play.

Looking a little sheepish, she says, "I'm sorry it happened, but it's not going to be a problem. This isn't a regular occurrence."

Smiling, Nick says, "I know that high school wasn't great for you, Quinn. You're not close with your family. You left without a boyfriend. Completely unattached. But your being unattached contributes to making you ideal for us....along with your athleticism, your poise from dance, your acting ability - I know all of that brought you to Yale for drama, but there's an entire world of possibilities that are available to you besides that. ...Really, it's a skill collection that seems pretty random, but if we were going to lay out a set of prerequisites for this line of work, you would have nailed every one."

Quinn makes her smile bashful, even though she's crowing on the inside.

"You know," he goes on conspiratorially, "most members of Skull and Bones hang around for a few years before we can figure out where to stick them in government agencies.... Where we think they'll be more useful to us. They have to push paper around for a long time before they get any kind of power. But you're starting out where most of our recruits are after months of training, and I really think we could use you to make a great agent. I'm really excited I found you, to be honest."

_Wow, he really is trying to take credit for my personal accomplishments._

"Anyway, your classes start next week and while we won't get in the way of that, your nights and weekends will belong to us. For as talented as you seem, there's a lot more we need to teach you before you're of any use."

It's the second time he's talked about her like a tool.

She stands up and shakes his hand. "I can't tell you how excited I am," she says, meeting his eyes, and then looking down at the floor. "I just hope that I can live up to everyone's expectations for me."

Saturday Evening  
Lima, Ohio

They've asked Rachel to turn her laptop's microphone volume down about three times now, and she's finally gotten to the end of what is pretty much the weirdest true story he's ever heard.

Artie is learning pretty quickly how to get over his claustrophobia. As he adjusts the speaker volume on his laptop for the third time, he's crowded by Sugar and Brittany, who are waving and saying hi to Mike and Santana and Mercedes. Sam and Tina linger a little further behind him, content not to hog the screen.

Managing a Skype call is way harder than trying to assert control in a Glee club meeting. At least in Glee, he doesn't have to contend with Rachel's cloying enthusiasm. It's pretty impressive that just about everyone made it on the call, though. Mercedes and Puck share a corner of the screen, calling from L.A. Mike is alone in his box, calling from Chicago. Kurt, Rachel, and Santana (okay, mostly Rachel) take up the fourth box. This call is taking place outside of Finn's allotted time for social calls.

Rachel's entire story has been super dramatic, even for Rachel, but Santana hasn't contradicted her once, which is about all Artie needs to believe it. Rachel had arranged for this Skype call by e-mailing everyone that, "a new important chapter is starting for the New Directions," and after hearing her tell of it, he's mostly shocked, but still trying to figure out what she wants the rest of them to do, exactly. And what the "new chapter" is.

"Okay," he says. "I need you to be really specific in what Quinn said to you this morning. The way that she said things could be important."

"Yes, of course," says Rachel. "I think some of it I've even already figured out! This is all so exciting."

"Yeah, nothing like getting chased by some asshole with a gun to spice up your life," Santana drolls in the background.

"Are you going to tell us what she said, or not?" asks Tina, sounding a little annoyed. This conversation has been going on for an hour already. Artie turns to her and brings his hand down in a horizontal calming motion.

"Yes, _Tina_ , I will," continues Rachel, annoyed at this questioning of her dramatic timing. "First she apologized that we hadn't been able to talk lately. She asked me to apologize to everyone about that, actually..."

"Yeah, well she'd have had to _talk_ to some of us in the first place for us to have noticed a change," interrupts Mercedes.

"People!" says Artie. "Let the woman talk or else we'll never get through this."

Rachel beams at her laptop camera before continuing. "Yes, well. After that, she said, "I don't have much time and I'm sorry about that, too.'"

"Had you said anything to her yet?" asks Artie.

"I guess when I picked the phone up, I said "Oh my God' a couple times, and I asked her if she was okay."

He fights not to roll his eyes - why is she leaving parts of the conversation out when he asked her to be as specific as possible! But complaining now is just going to make it take even longer before Rachel gets to her point.

"What'd she say?" he asks instead.

"She said that she was fine and that none of us should worry about her."

"Okay, then what?" he asks. Everyone else seems content to let him handle this information extraction. In fact, everyone not on the New York portion of the Skype call seems really bored, except for Brittany.

"Then she got super intense, and she told me she hoped I was partying hard and that I had made a lot of friends at NYADA. Which I thought was sorely inappropriate given what had just happened to me!" Puck is licking his lips and then visibly biting his tongue through a wicked smirk. Artie hopes that nobody chooses this moment to make Rachel feel insecure about being kind of a loser, but she doesn't seem to be paying any attention to Puck's reaction. "She said....she asked if I remembered the conversation we'd had with Puck at Brittany's pool party. Umm, before Blaine's fight with Tina and Artie, I mean." Artie and Tina exchange a smirk (their first test as co-captains of New Directions had been defending their position from an emotional and lovesick Blaine, who had broken up with Kurt only a week earlier).

"About fake IDs?" Puck asks, smirk replaced by grave excitement.

"Yes," says Rachel. "Well, her exact words were, "Remember when we talked with Puck? I hope you took him up on that so you can really let loose. If you didn't, you should. All of our old friends should.'"

"Okay...." says Artie. "That's pretty clear, actually."

"It's clear that she thinks Rachel should get a fake ID and the rest of us, too," says Kurt. "After what happened to Rachel, there's really no question why she wants us to have fakes."

"Sweet," says Puck. "Q wants you guys to partake in the sweet nectar of underage drinking."

"Are you even _listening?"_ asks Tina.

"Quinn asked me to give the phone to Santana," says Rachel.

"Yeah, and then Quinn said she knew that Rachel had a rough night last night, and I said, "Yeah, no shit. Where the hell were you, anyway?' And she said she couldn't talk much about last night. She said, "You know everything is pretty tense right now, Santana. And I can't spell everything out for you.' And I said that was fine with me. She said she was afraid for Rachel's sake, and that she wished Rachel had taken some self-defense classes before moving to New York. And then she said it would be a good thing for all of our friends to do."

"Huh," says Artie.

"Right," said Kurt. "So she wants all of us to get fake IDs and learn how to kick some tail. Sounding a little more involved yet?"

"No?" offers Mike. "Taking self-defense before moving to a big city seems like a normal thing to do."

"So does getting fake IDs," says Puck. "Most people get "em so they can drink. Unless they're LOSERS." Through Skype, it's a little hard to tell who Puck is raging against, specifically, which probably results in everyone but Santana and Brittany taking it personally.

"She wants us to be able to protect ourselves," says Artie. "Especially Rachel. If she'd had a fake ID on her, she could have used it to go in a bar to be with other people or something."

Santana breaks in. "Quinn said it won't take them very long to figure out that Rachel lives in New York City. We're going to watch her... Quinn said that so long as nothing else happens, they'll probably leave her alone."

"But Quinn made it sound like she'd be seeing some of us soon," says Kurt. "Going forward, it might not just be Rachel. Anyone who sees us with Quinn might try to find out who we are."

"Alright, people," he says. "This plan seems pretty dope. Fake IDs are easy. Puck, can you send me your buddy's name again?"

"So, we're doing this?" asks Mercedes. "Will we take self-defense classes, too? You know that'll be hard for me, with my schedule and all."

"Yeah, or my budget," says Sam.

"Don't worry, Sam. I've got this," says Sugar.

"Thanks," Sam mutters, cheeks bright red now.

Artie glances at Tina, their agreement mutual: End this conversation while everyone is more or less in agreement, before someone finds something else to pick apart and get upset about. (Their co-captain fu is pretty awesome.)

Kurt has apparently already reached the same conclusion, though, and speaks before Artie can. "Okay, people, it's settled. Artie, we'll be in touch about fakes for me and Rachel. Let's talk again on Friday. Remember not to explicitly talk about this online. I will e-mail _most_ of you after Grey's Anatomy premieres next Thursday. Bye!" The New York City segment of the Skype chat signed off.

"Why would be talking about sex?" Brittany is quietly asking Sugar, probably due to Kurt's use of the word "explicit."

Artie half-rolls his eyes while looking at his laptop's camera. "Anyway....Mike, can you talk to Finn since Puck's gonna manage the fake IDs?"

"You got it, man," says Mike. "Later."

He disconnects. Without missing a beat, Brittany asks, "Umm, so can someone help me with my English homework?"

And in a way, she has a point. Until they can do something awesome, there's all this benign bullshit in between.

"I can help you, Brittany," says Tina, getting up to move over next to her.

Three Weeks Later  
Los Angeles, California

Mercedes has her word processor open, but is more tapping the keys to her music than actually writing. She needs to write half of this paper before hitting the gym, and it is not happening.

Overall, it's a lot easier to take just one class at a time, as opposed to the 7 she'd been taking at a time for all of high school. Her parents insisted that she use some of her new salary to take a class part-time at UCLA. She doesn't even want to think about how long it's going to take her to finish a degree if she kept going at this pace, but her new job as a back-up singer is the coolest gig any of her friends has gotten, so she isn't complaining.

Her web browser bounces; she has a new e-mail from Kurt. For the last 3 weeks, she's gotten nervous every time she checked her e-mail, expecting there to be some awful story from her friends on the East coast. But this is just a reminder from Kurt for everyone who graduated last year to date all of the condiments in their refrigerators and a link to a website with a long list of products and their average shelf-life ( _jellies and jams are good for 6 months; homemade salsa is good for 3 days; a jar of mass-produced salsa is good for 1 month_ ). She forwards the e-mail to her father, asking him if Kurt's information is legit.

Her phone rings, and she picks up without looking at the name display.

"What up?"

"Hey Mercedes," says Puck.

It's taken a while to get used to hanging out with Puck, but he's really the only person she knows in California, and as much as she loves her job, the girls in her band are divas who rival Rachel's level of crazy. Puck provides a deeply-needed reality check, and hanging out with someone in person is so much better than the texts, e-mails, and Skype chats that she constantly has with Tina, Sam, Rachel, and Kurt.

"Hey Puck, what's going on?"

"Umm, so one of our friends from Connecticut just called and she wants us to help her out while she's in town for the day. Something she needs some man-power for. I don't think we'll be able to meet her for dinner or anything, though."

A million questions blow through Mercedes's mind, but she knows she shouldn't ask them on the phone. Quinn and Artie had given everyone strict instructions about what they could and couldn't say. "That sucks that we can't hang out," she says. "Should I meet you somewhere, so I can see her, too?"

"Yeah, that'd be great," says Puck, making his half of the conversation sound breezy. "Pick me up at my place, and bring that bottle of vodka. We're going to have an awesome party."

Now Mercedes is more confused than ever - Puck only drinks beer, and she only drinks at her own place since she always has to drive home since she doesn't want to get cited for under-age drinking and, anyway, as long as she keeps living this far out of the city she'll always need to drive home.

"How classy is this party?" she asks. "Like, just wear something clean, or fancier than that?"

"Clean's fine," he says. "Don't bother with your hair, though. We've gotta be on time."

"Okay dude, I'll see you in ten." She hangs up.

It's strange to finally be involved. She'd heard Santana's and Rachel's story, and obviously she and Puck had both been on the group Skype calls, but for some reason everything had seemed really distant. She hadn't expected Quinn to actually ask for anything - they rarely talked these days, and there's an entire country between them, too.

Well, it was real now.

She should probably not wear flip-flops, at any rate.

They're sitting in a tiny parking lot outside of a dubious-looking paint shop, which only has room for about three cars, waiting for a text from Quinn. Mercedes taps her fingers on the steering wheel, feeling nervous that the paint store owner is going to come out the door and tell them to stop blocking his parking spots.

Kurt had wanted her to buy a Mercedes-Benz because he appreciated the matching names. She'd bought a Honda instead, for better gas mileage (also to save a pile of money). Puck had mentioned when she picked him up that he was glad it had a sun roof. She didn't see the relevance just now, but thinking about the possibilities made her a lot more nervous.

The plan, according to Puck, is to sabotage Quinn's assignment with Skull & Bones (apparently this is one of many). They're going to show up alongside a car that Quinn is tailing. The car won't know that it's going to be Quinn behind them. They need to stop the other car somehow without making it look like Quinn was responsible.

When she'd pulled up in Puck's driveway, he had immediately smeared her license plates with fistfuls of mud.

"Do you even know who it is we're stopping?" she asks him pointedly.

"She didn't say," says Puck. "I don't think she wanted to say more'n she had to on the phone."

His phone vibrates. "She says to pull on to 134 now," he says, "Let's go."

Mercedes cruises out of the paint store's parking lot and merges across three lanes of traffic to get on to the on-ramp. There's a city bus starting to merge in the lane to her right. She guns the gas, cutting him off.

"Nice," Puck says, and sets his phone to take voice texting, but Quinn calls him.

"Put me on speaker," Mercedes can hear Quinn's tinny cell phone voice from her seat. Puck complies, and pulls the bottle of vodka from the reusable Whole Foods bag on Mercedes's back seat.

"Hey," says Quinn, her voice clipped. "We don't have much time. I did want to say I'm sorry, real quick, for not being able to have talked more lately." She's repeating the message already relayed through Rachel, and Mercedes fights against rolling her eyes. Quinn hasn't talked to her too much in the last two years, let alone the last month.

"Whatever, babe, you've got shit going on," says Puck.

"I told you not to call me that," snaps Quinn, but she sounds like maybe she's smiling. "I meant you, Mercedes. I owe you an explanation. We'll have to talk more about it later." She changes tack. "It's so nice to see you guys again. I'm wearing blue, and my date's a big guy, black suit." Puck's eyes narrow in confusion, but Mercedes's flick to the rear-view mirror. She points behind them, so Puck can turn and see a black SUV tailed by a blue Jetta. Quinn has enormous sunglasses on that take up about half her face. She's wearing a red bandanna over her her hair, too. Mercedes cuts her speed and switches to the left lane while Quinn says quickly,

"We need to cut out this black truck," abandoning any semblance of code. "They don't know I'm driving behind them, but one of "em will know me if he sees me. They can't see me. We should stop them before they get off the highway. Any time he leaves the highway, driving through neighborhoods, he has backup. It'll be much harder."

Puck pulls a rag out of his back pocket that smells faintly of pool cleaner. He unscrews the bottle of vodka, and douses the rag.

"Umm, what in the world-" Mercedes's question is answered as he pulls a lighter from the bag. She hesitates, and then taps the brakes, cutting down the speed of the car.

"Mercedes, you have to get next to him," says Quinn. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Quinn, but I don't even know who these people are. I'm not going to help hurt people without a really good reason."

"Mercedes, you have to trust me," says Quinn.

"It's Q," says Puck, like that makes it okay.

"Why would I trust you, Quinn? It's not like you've been a good friend to me. The minute you moved back out of my house - where have you _been_ the last two years?"

"God, Mercedes, I'm really don't-"

"Do we really have time for this right now, ladies?" asks Puck. "Just focus on this job." There's a beat of silence while Quinn changes tactics.

"The guy in the car sells drugs to teenagers in gangs in South LA. His gang helped the feds stop an assassination against the Saudi ambassador, so they get special treatment. Cops leave their drugs alone. I'm supposed to be laying low and getting a feel for undercover - the last week, I've been a college student who's started using cocaine. Guy in the passenger's seat has been my dealer. Right now, their truck's full of merchandise. I don't want those drugs going anywhere."

"Man, fuck that guy," mutters Puck, glaring out the window. He doesn't look at Mercedes, though, doesn't pressure her, which she appreciates.

"If we can do this without hurting anyone, we will," says Quinn, pushing Mercedes. "But he needs to be taken down by the cops, no matter what he's done to benefit U.S. foreign policy with the Saudis."

Mercedes speeds up again. "Yeah, okay."

"Thanks, Mercedes," says Quinn. "I really do mean it, about talking later."

Mercedes doesn't say anything - she doesn't know what to say. She sort of feels like a jerk, now, for bringing up personal crap from the past. But however busy Quinn is, she did just show up, expect her and Puck to drop everything, and to agree to this nonsense. She does still want to talk about this later like Quinn said, but she's worried they're not going to be able to. It's not like Rachel was able to talk to Quinn much after she went to New Haven.

Her car is alongside the SUV now; some white dude is driving the car, and there's someone else in the passenger seat.

"Okay," says Quinn. "If they get off the highway, then they get cover from the rest of the gang in less than three minutes. If we can put their car temporarily out of commission while it's still on the highway, then the police have to be the ones to come and tow them. Gang-bangers can't really be discrete about cleaning up a busted car in the middle of the freeway."

"On it, babe," says Puck. He taps the button to open the car's sun roof. He flicks the lighter on, and ignites the vodka-doused rag, which is stuffed into the three-quarters full bottle.

Mercedes is mostly concentrating on driving, but her eyes meet Puck's.

"Okay, keep going straight, no matter what," he says. "There's going to be some flame-flash, just drive through it, your car's not going to get blown up. Neither is theirs. But they might freak out, might bump into the car in front of them, spin out, something." To Quinn, he says, "Get ready to change lanes!"

She doesn't answer, just speeds up, matching the speed of the SUV, then pulling ahead a little, remaining in her own lane.

Puck surges upward suddenly, chucking the vodka fire-bomb out the window, smashing it in front of the SUV. It explodes into a fireball, flames licking up against her Honda as she guns it and gets the car through the flash of fire. The SUV banks hard to the right as the alcohol burns quickly. Just as she starts looking over her shoulder to see where Quinn's blue car is, shots ring out and Puck is pushing her head down so that it's below the door and out of sight. He pulls the steering wheel firmly to get the back into the center of their lane.

She isn't screaming, which seems weird, but she supposes Puck isn't, either.

"I need to see where I'm going, Puck," she says, putting her head back up so she can see the road. Puck eases up; he'd been trying to shield her head with his hand, while keeping his own head below the dashboard.

She flinches as she hears another shot, but then sees a flash of red in her rear-view mirror: It's Quinn and her bandanna hanging out the window, aiming a gun and shooting out one of the SUV's tires.

_Shit._

Quinn swings back inside almost immediately, overly large sunglasses still firmly on her face.

Mercedes is impressed by Quinn's aim, but disturbed as she watches the SUV spins out and on to the right shoulder of the highway.

"Don't stop, don't stop," chants Quinn. "I'll make sure the police find him; they won't be able to turn a blind eye to an entire carload of drugs. But speed up, don't stop."

There's a wide berth around them; other cars on the highway didn't want to get close to the vehicle that had emitted a fire-bomb, nor to the girl with the gun.

"Take the next exit," says Quinn. "Our descriptions are going to be given to the police by at least one of these people. We can't be seen together. I'll get off at the exit after you. God.... _damn it!_ I don't know how to meet you."

"We got this, Quinn, we can get the car back to Mercedes's place, we'll wash her license plates off somewhere along the way."

"Alright. Don't call for a few days unless there's trouble. Out," she says, abruptly ending the call.

Mercedes has already changed lanes twice and is cutting her speed on the exit ramp.

"I don't know if it's better to stay on main roads or smaller ones," she says, glancing at Puck.

"I don't know. Fuck, I don't know..." he says. "Small ones, I guess."

After a few miles, her shoulder muscles are able to relax a little bit as she accepts that they're likely going to make it home without getting pulled over.

At Puck's advice, they pull into a McDonald's parking lot and he rinses off her license plates with some bottled water.

There isn't really anything to say when she finally drops him off at home.

She spends the night obsessively watching the local news. She asks Kurt to keep the LAPD's police blotter open in a tab, too (she doesn't want the obsessive refreshing to be traced back to her own IP address).

She doesn't bother going to the gym. She doesn't really sleep.

The next morning around 11, there's a knock at the door, and she warily eyes the peep hole to confirm that it is in fact Puck before opening it and letting him through. He's carrying a six-pack of beer with him.

"Hey. You hungry? I have some leftover pizza in the fridge."

"Man, that would be great," he says, popping open one of the cans of beer. He doesn't open one for her, but he leaves the six-pack in the middle of the counter, invitation obvious. She hands him a slice of pepperoni on a plate, with a paper towel.

"How'd you sleep last night?" he asks, not making eye contact.

"Crappy, I guess," she says honestly. "What about you?"

"Well, not great. At first, I mean. Then I jerked off, and I was fine."

"Ugh, Puck, I do _not_ need to hear about that."

"Whatever. It helps." He stands up to help himself to a second slice of pizza. "Anyway, Artie was talking about everyone getting into shape and needing to learn self-defense and shit."

She nods.

"I know you've already started working out already anyway. But I thought that like, I could teach you how to throw a punch, and shit."

She exhales, feeling uncomfortable. "I don't know, Puck. I don't think that I want to learn how to hurt people. Yesterday was bad enough, and all I did was drive the car."

"Yeah?" asks Puck, frustrated. "So what happens if one of those Skull and Bones guys comes after our friends like they did for Rachel? What if Sam or Kurt gets his ass kicked and you're you're the only one around who can do anything about it?"

 _Two wrongs don't make a right,_ is her first thought.

 _Turn the other cheek_ , is the second.

But she can't ignore the flame of anger in her belly at just the thought of one of her friends getting hurt.

"Yeah, okay," she says, pushing off on the counter to stand up. "Let's do this."

Puck smirks and takes a swig of beer. "Atta girl."

Three Days Later

Puck doesn't have a lot of time before he needs to leave for his gig, but he picks his phone up anyway. Finn's his bro, and it could actually be important. Or it could be Finn wigging out about the possibility of getting deployed again even though he hasn't even finished his first 10 weeks yet.

"Dude. "Sup?" he asks.

"Hey, Puck," says Finn. "Kurt said that you guys...saw Lucy, and he said I should talk to you about it."

First of all, _Lucy_ is the worst code name to use for Quinn....it's her actual legal name! Finn's his bro, but the guy is a dumb shit sometimes.

"Mercedes and I hung out with Barbie, yeah," he says, trying to sound chill.

"Umm, Kurt said something about _fire_ ," Finn says, whispering the last word but he's basically hissing it.

"Yeah, well she needed some help so we helped her out."

"But a flaming bottle of vodka?? That's pretty freaky, Puck."

He's annoyed now, and the code thing is done.

"Look, dude, you weren't there. Shit was weird, and we did what we had to. That guy was an extreme douche. He deserved it."

There's a beat of silence. "Yeah?" Finn finally asks. "How do you know?"

"Well, Quinn said--"

"Did you _see_ him do anything?"

"No, dude, I mean, it was the heat of the moment. But she told us all about him. I can't tell you on the phone, but he's into some bad stuff. And he was going to hurt more people."

"Well, that's what _she_ told you."

"What the fuck is your problem, man?"

"I don't have a problem, Puck. I just....Quinn manipulates people. That's kind of her thing, right? And nobody has had the chance to talk to her that much. And maybe she really is doing what she's doing for the right reasons."

Finn pauses, but Puck doesn't say anything. He knows Finn's not done yet.

"But like...maybe Quinn just has her own plan...and she wants to use all of us."

Finn can be really stupid sometimes, but sometimes he recognizes things nobody else notices.

"I don't know, man. Quinn's a smart girl, and-"

"Yeah, but that's how she's able to use people to get what she wants," says Finn.

"But what about what happened to Rachel in New Haven? How do you explain that?"

"I don't know," says Finn. "I mean...We know that Quinn is _part of_ Skull and Bones. What if _she_ sent that guy out to scare the crap out of Rachel?"

Puck scrubs his hand over his face. "This is complicated enough without coming up with our own explanations for everything that's happened," he says.

"Well, she's not our only smart friend," says Finn. "I could talk to Kurt--"

"Don't ask Kurt yet, that's like the same as bringing it up with Rachel. I'm not ready for her crap yet."

"Okay, so...."

"I'll call Mike," says Puck. "And then maybe Artie and Tina. Sam. Y'know, people might get pissed-"

"It'll be worth it, though," says Finn. "I mean. Maybe I'm wrong. But everything seems too...perfect. I'm sure Quinn had some story ready that made you want to help her take that guy down. But like....Quinn always has the perfect story to get what she wants."

Puck doesn't say anything, but he knows that Finn is right. Quinn does some messed up stuff sometimes. He just thought she'd grown out of it. But maybe not?

"Anyway. I'll talk to people and let you know what they say."

"Alright. Thanks, man." Puck opens his mouth to say bye, but Finn continues, "And, hey. I'm glad that you and Mercedes are okay and stuff."

"Of course," says Puck, with some bravado. "I'm the Puckmeister, right? We're taken care of over here."

One Week Later  
Lima, Ohio

"Why did we have to come HERE to study?" complains Sugar from the other end of the table.

"Because there are less distractions here," says Tina, smiling. "If we stayed at your house, we'd just watch movies in your parents' theater. We need to do our homework."

Sugar mutters something indiscernible but definitely includes the word "Friday."

Next to Sugar, Brittany reaches in front of her to pass Sam a bowl of popcorn. Sam's homework grades have gone up now that Sugar checks over his answers to make sure his dyslexia didn't make him mess anything up. It's also possible to monitor Brittany's homework status and help her figure out _how_ to do her homework (instead of Sugar just giving her the answers).

"Okay, so are you done looking at my paper yet?" Sam asks Sugar, attempting to get her to focus again.

"Don't tell me what to do, Samuel. Just finish your worksheet and I'll be done looking over this before you're finished."

Next to Tina, Artie smiled down into his calc homework. Listening to Sam constantly attempt to get Sugar and Brittany to focus is kind of hilarious.

They'd had a group-Skype chat a couple of hours ago, anyway, so it was easier to stay in one place. Puck and Mercedes had called in from L.A. Kurt, Santana, and Rachel had called from New York City. Quinn had joined their call at the end, having finished what she vaguely referred to as an "extracurricular activity." They all knew what she meant. Tina had been a little upset that the call on their end had lasted a little longer at the end so that Mike (calling in from Chicago) could show them his new black lab puppy. It meant hearing him longer, looking at him longer.

Thinking about him longer.

She and Mike hadn't exchanged words directly this time except to say goodbye, after everyone else in her basement had backed off the laptop and moved to the table. Mike had smiled and told her she's looking good at the very end, when she was shutting down Skype.

"Your puppy's really cute," had been her reply.

She'd thought she'd understood break-ups after Artie, but the way things are with Mike now...This is entirely different.

Grateful as she is for hanging out with her friends, talking to last year's seniors (minus Finn, whose Internet time is limited and monitored) is just kind of a way to remind her how everyone else is moving on without them.

She felt sorry for Rachel, because what happened in New Haven sounded both harrowing and awful; sorry for Mercedes, who was clearly wigged out by the violence. She felt conflicted about Quinn. At first there had been a deep admiration for what she was trying to do, but after the conversation she and Artie had had with Puck, all of her feelings about Quinn are laced with a lingering suspicion.

But she still feels less and less connected to all of them, except for those still at McKinley with her, sitting around her table right now. But they are all fractured by distance. They still talk sometimes, but to be honest she'd already felt like they were drifting apart in high school, so no amount of talking would be able to fix things. Kurt had basically stopped talking to her in favor of Rachel. And with her and Mike deciding to end it-

"Yo, Tina," says Artie, waving a hand in front of her face. "You actually going to check my math homework over, or am I just that good?"

"Sorry," she murmurs, reaching for some pretzels and focusing on the equations written out in pencil on the graph paper in front of her. She and Artie are weeks ahead in their AP English and AP Government classes already. They'd promised to get ahead so that they would be ready "when" Quinn needed them to drop everything and do research, or help her out on a mission like Mercedes and Puck had. It seems like an unnecessary effort, though, when all they'd been asked to do so far was coordinate the delivery of fake IDs.

Puck had called them to say that he and Finn weren't totally sure about Quinn's motives in everything, but there's not much that they can do about that aside from feel confused. It's not like they can call Quinn up and ask her what she's up to - if Quinn's lying to them, she'll lie when she's confronted, too.

At the other end of the table, Sam has gotten Brittany and Sugar to work on finishing drafts of their history papers provided that they could paint his toenails afterward.

She hands Artie's math back to him; the equations look fine, so she tells him to go ahead and draw the graphs.

"So... do you know whether Mike's coming back for Homecoming?" Artie asks, trying to sound casual. They spend just about every waking minute together because of their classes and Glee, but Tina is grateful that he hasn't tried to make a move on her even though she's single again. Her mom keeps wanting her to find another boyfriend, but she's so not ready.

"I don't know," she mumbles. "Finn and Puck won't be coming, so I'm not sure he'll want to make the trip."

"Right," Artie begins sarcastically, "There's no one _else_ here he'd want to see."

"Well anyway, I wouldn't know," says Tina. "We don't talk very much outside of our group Skypes. So you know about as much as I do."

"Okay," he says, unperturbed.

She swallows a mouthful of pretzel. "And is _Quinn_ coming back for Homecoming?" she asks, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Umm, in case you haven't noticed, Quinn goes to _Yale_ ," he says, completely ignoring her insinuation that his feelings for Quinn mirror hers for Mike. "She's also like, training to be a blonde Lara Croft."

"Lara Croft wasn't a spy!" says Tina.

"Carmen Sandiego. Whatever."

"James Bond? James _Blonde_."

"I dunno, dog. That might work." He becomes absorbed in checking Tina's math homework, and then after a few minutes starts dropping beats to the Carmen Sandiego theme song, so Tina sings along, and Brittany and Sugar join in. Sam is the only one who hasn't heard of the show before, but he's able to do the chorus anyway.

"We should do kids' show theme songs for Glee next week," she says, smiling at the table.

"That would be the best," says Brittany. "I like to put Santana's name in my favorites. Spongebob Santanapants is my favorite."

"You guys come up with much better assignments than Rachel and Finn did," says Sugar, beaming.

"Well, we're not as crazy about competitions, maybe," says Tina.

This is what Glee is about, lately. Everything is about what to do the next day, maybe the next week. For the last three years, Glee had focused so much on competitions that no groundwork had been laid with last year's freshmen or sophomores. New Directions consists of five members now that Blaine had transferred back to Dalton (he'd given up being a Glee co-captain after she'd told him that it would happen over her and Artie's cold, dead bodies; he and Kurt had broken up two weeks previously when Kurt told him he wanted to move to New York City with Rachel and Santana even though he hadn't gotten into NYADA). They don't have enough people to compete in Sectionals. They've been trying to talk to Zizes and the other remnants of the Trouble Tones, but so far they've had no luck.

Glee is supposed to be cool after winning Nationals, but nobody has signed up yet. Maybe trophies only mattered for things that were already cool, like sports.

It's supposed to be "her" year now that Rachel is gone, but she's never going to sing a competition solo if they can't even qualify to compete.

"Umm, so I need to go home and sleep soon because I've got work in the morning," says Sam, breaking the silence that had seemed pleasant enough for everyone else. "I was thinking, though, we're all about to finish the two-week basic self-defense course, and if we're going to keep doing this, we have to pick our next classes. Like, karate or tae kwon do or whatever."

"Maybe we should all pick different ones," says Tina. "Diversify."

"That's the Glee way," says Artie. "I've still got a few weeks with my guy in Cleveland, though. I've only been able to get there once a week."

"I won't have one to pick either," says Brittany. "Coach Sylvester is giving me lessons. She said her masterful fighting doesn't have or need a name. So I don't know what to call it."

"Right.... Anyway, I'm leaning toward karate; I'll e-mail you and Tina before I go to bed," he says to Sugar. "I'm glad we could get together like this, Tina. It's a lot easier to stay motivated when I'm with you guys. Carol's been going to DC every weekend to see Burt, so the house is pretty empty and stuff."

"No problem, Sam. We can do this again next Friday, since there's no football game."

"Yeah, sure."

Ten minutes later, everyone's gone except for Artie, and he and Tina sit in her living room waiting for his mom to come and pick him up. His house isn't actually that far away from hers, but his mom freaks out when he's out after dark and it's easier to just let her come and pick him up.

Tina starts to talk, then stops, running her thumb over the ribbed seam of the couch, trying to find her words.

"Do you think Quinn is actually going to need us to do anything for her?" she asks, thinking immediately that she sounds petulant.

"I don't know. ...Everything seems too crazy to be real. But still...self-defense isn't a useless skill, you know?"

"Maybe not," she says. "I wish I could actually help somehow. I'm so sick of being in high school. I'm sick of being kids. But even after we graduate at the end of this year, I still have no idea where I'm going to go or what I'm going to do."

"Hey," says Artie, gently. "None of us know what we're doing yet. You're really smart, Tina. You have a lot of options, and none of them are bad. You could go to some Ivy League, or you could go somewhere close to your friends, and I think you'd be fine."

She meets his eyes briefly, but she feels like she's being too honest to hold his gaze much longer than that. "Following other people around - I don't even know if Quinn or Kurt or Mercedes will still be my friends by the end of the year. Everyone grows apart after high school. That's what happens."

"It doesn't have to. People like you, they like talking to you. We all still talk, all the time. You still could at the end of the year, next summer, when we start college. Your relationships aren't going to go away if you don't let them. And even if you don't talk to someone for a long time...things will be right where you left off, when you do."

He's right. Or, maybe he's right. She still feels sullen.

"I guess I just wish I felt like I was moving forward, or like I could really help. Quinn's going to an awesome school, and she has a purpose she's working toward every day. If it's real, I mean. And that Mercedes and Rachel and Kurt and Mike are so much more real, living real lives in real cities...I wish we could have already graduated."

"Yeah...I think this is just teenage angst, Tina. ...I think this is a normal thing to feel."

She starts to answer him, but he interrupts.

"Sorry," he says. "What I'm trying to say is that I feel the same way. It's what feeling powerless is like. Nothing's planned after high school, you know? At a certain point, we're writing our own scripts. That shit is scary. You have to take it a day at a time."

Artie's mom's headlights wash over the living room front window.

"Yeah," she says, following him to the door. "I guess I can do that. We really need to figure out what's up with Quinn, though."

"We'll make a plan," says Artie. "We'll figure it out."

Fort Jackson  
South Carolina

Finn hates the way he feels after hearing about Rachel from Kurt. His chest feels hot still, that's how he knows he still loves her. But there's a painful aching, too, that's still unfamiliar enough to make him feel like he's just had a bad tackle on the football field. He doesn't like it that feeling love is painful. It isn't supposed to hurt. And even though he's been apart from Rachel before, it has never hurt like this time, because this time is so much more permanent.

The worst part is that he feels like such an idiot now, too. Rachel had been ready to give up New York to stay by him because he hadn't got into the acting program he wanted (it turned out that Inside the Actor's Studio was actually for graduate students, and you needed an undergraduate degree, first). He hadn't wanted her to do that, so he had broken up with her.

But... Kurt and Santana are living in New York even though they hadn't gotten accepted to school anywhere. He could be doing that and still living with Rachel.

_Right, but then you wouldn't be doing anything for yourself._

He knows his voice is right. If he had gone to New York City like Kurt or Santana, he wouldn't be doing auditions like Santana or Kurt, waiting for some big break. He'd be sitting in an apartment all day, unless he was working at some crappy job for high school graduates. He doesn't know if he wants to go to college, or what he would study if he did go, so he's in the army until he can figure that out. Plus, the army will pay for tuition and stuff. It makes sense in his brain, and it pisses him off when Mr. Schue or Burt or his mom look at him with sad eyes like he's make a huge mistake.

When actually, this is pretty much the only choice he'd ever made that wasn't already made up for him by a girl.

Whenever he thought about her, it's always in flashes: Rachel, smiling up at him from under the crook of his arm. Rachel, singing in the choir room with her fist over her chest. Rachel, curled up on his parents' couch wringing Kurt's hand while they talked about some Broadway musical that was going to open next fall.

Since leaving high school, Quinn never really talks to Finn. Sometimes indirectly, in the same Facebook comments, but that's about it. He gets messages from her that are sent to everybody, but if he needs to know anything else, the message gets to him from Kurt, or sometimes Puck. Rachel doesn't want to talk to him any more, and once she stopped talking to him, he'd realized that he had pissed off a lot of people in Glee club. Some of it was just from breaking up with her - Tina and Quinn had said some stuff about him making decisions on Rachel's behalf, about "autonomy" or whatever. He doesn't exactly get what they meant, but Rachel had been about to make the wrong choice, so he knows he had done the right thing.

Santana had stopped talking to him senior year when he'd said in the hallway that she was gay, and so Brittany had stopped talking to him, too.

Anyway, while Rachel got chased by a guy with a gun, and Mercedes and Puck had to firebomb a car to purposely ruin one of Quinn's jobs, Finn has only received a single request to help Quinn so far: do not, under any circumstances, drop out of the army.

He'd angrily asked Kurt if he had told anyone about their conversation where he'd told Kurt he didn't know about staying in the army, but Kurt had sworn he hadn't told anyone.

He supposes it was Quinn, thinking that she knew everything about him. It sucks so much that she's that perceptive. Further evidence that all of this Skull & Bones stuff was her doing whatever she wanted to, anyway.

"Hudson!" yells a voice, clouded a bit by the hiss of the shower head above his face.

The shampoo and soap have been rinsed off his body for about five minutes, so he fumbles to shut the shower off.

"Yeah-? Umm. Sir?" he calls back. It's really important to remember how you're supposed to talk in the army. If you mess up one word, people freak out.

"Colonel Hart wants you in his office. Now." _Shit._ Finn feels his stomach clench involuntarily. He has only seen Colonel Hart once, from a distance, while he and his unit were on the parade grounds. People only see Colonel Hart if they're in really deep shit. He hears footsteps moving away.

"Umm, hey!" he calls. "I don't even know where his office is. Can you tell me?"

"I'll show you," says the voice, which he now recognizes as Oscar's, his unit's commanding officer. "Just get dressed quick, Finn."

The other boys are talking to one another in low voices at their lockers.

Four minutes later, he sits in front of Colonel Hart's desk, water from his shower still trickling through his scalp and down his neck. He should have dried it with a towel; it only would have taken five seconds.

"Hudson," starts Colonel Hart. He doesn't smile.

This feels like being inside Figgins's office, except Mr. Schue isn't here to help him out.

"Sir," he says, hoping he doesn't sound as chicken as he feels.

"Hudson, you like being in the army, don't you?"

"Umm..." Finn doesn't understand why he's being asked this question, but then he gets paranoid that he sounds like he's trying to decide. "Sir. Yessir, I like being in the army."

"Good. That's good," says Colonel Hart. "You know, we just ask that you kids do as you're told."

Finn waits to see if Colonel Hart is going to say something else, but he doesn't, so Finn just says, "Yes, sir."

"We ask that you do as you're told _and nothing else,_ Hudson. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Thank God, Hart is trying to level with him.

"Umm. Not really," he admits. "Have I done something I'm not supposed to do?"

"Not yet," says Colonel Hart, looking right at him. "But some of our boys think I don't know what's said or done at this fort. And I want you to know, Finn," he's leaning forward across the desk now, pushing the tip of his index finger into the desk. "I hear every. Goddamn. Thing."

Finn can feel his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline as he licks his lips. "Okaaa--"

"Now get out of my office," says Colonel Hart, and for a moment Finn wonders if he's related to Coach Sylvester.

_He knows, he knows, he knows._

Finn practically speed-walks back to his bed. The other guys have already gone down to the grounds. He's pretty sure he'll be allowed a couple minutes because he was with Colonel Hart, but he doesn't have much time.

He pulls his phone out and starts tapping out a text message to Puck.

It's probably risky to contact anyone right now, but he knows if he doesn't, he'll keep getting messages about Quinn and what she's doing and what's happening to everyone else, especially after the last phone call he had with Puck.

Finn Hudson, 8:34am

Hey dude, just talked to my boss. I can't talk about our CoD missions while I'm on base anymore. Says I need to focus. I can talk about normal shit. Everything else needs to wait 'til Thanksgiving. Tell other dudes plz.

He and Puck haven't played Call of Duty since Finn arrived at boot camp. During his limited free time, he's sometimes able to play a half-hour with Artie or Mike, but the time zones in L.A. are too messed up, and Puck is always still working or playing at a gig when Finn has time.

Anyway. If Puck can't figure it out, he's pretty sure that Kurt, Artie, and probably Mike will know what he meant.

For now, it's pretty clear what he needs to do, according to Colonel Hart: Keep his head down, and not talk anywhere, with anyone, about Skull and Bones or Quinn or any of that stuff.

Even though he's the only one who's really figured out what's up with Quinn.

Well, at least he'd told Puck.

He feels creeped out, and working in Burt's tire shop sounds better every day. But his instructions are as clear as the message from Colonel Hart: He can't quit, because Quinn is going to need him. And it's possible she's not being a manipulative bitch. Unlikely, but possible.

So...in the meantime, he should go down the parade ground. If he's going to be in the army anyway, he might as well be the best at it that he can be.

He's just not sure what the point is.

Lima, Ohio

Artie leans over his chair to face Tina more directly. They don't have long before Mr. Schue is going to show up in the choir room. When he does, they'll have to change the topic quickly. Mr. Schue always assumes they're talking about sex. Sometimes being a teenager is the perfect cover.

Tina has talked to Mercedes, who had talked to Puck, who had absorbed Finn's theory about Quinn. Finn had promptly gone MIA - kind of convenient if you think about it, but Finn wouldn't have been able to plan that far ahead.

They're purposely sitting apart from Sugar and Brittany. Both of them would tell Santana about their suspicion of Quinn, and Santana doesn't need to know that yet. Brittany might get mad, too.

They could tell them once they'd figured out what to do about it.

"We need to know what Quinn's up to for real," Tina is saying matter-of-factly.

"Artie's really good with computers," says Sam. "He could maybe hack or something. Like the CIA's files."

"Just because I'm a nerd doesn't mean that I know how to hack into things," says Artie. "But usually when people talk about "hacking' all they really mean is "guessing someone's password. And you can get into really deep shit for hacking the CIA's records. Like go to prison. You don't even have to do anything with the information you get - they just catch you in there, and then you're fucked."

"Well is there somewhere else we can hack into?" asks Tina. "Or a way to access CIA records without hacking?"

"They don't keep that information open to the public," says Sam a little condescendingly, "That's kind of the point...."

Artie snaps, "Look, unless you know somebody who has congressional access to federal agency reports, there's no way-oh."

Tina has already whipped her cell phone out and has Kurt on speed dial.

Artie puts his hand over hers, and she ends the call with her thumb.

"What?" she asks him.

"Just... we're not telling Brittany that we're second-guessing Quinn. If we tell Kurt, he'll tell Rachel, and then there'll be this huge fight over whether we trust Quinn or who's closest to Quinn, or a bunch of other bullshit. They might even TELL Quinn, and then we'll never be able to check."

"Then how do we get them to look it up and not talk to Quinn about it?" asks Sam.

"We tell Kurt that Quinn's the one who wants him to look her up... she wants to know the CIA's opinion of her, or something."

Tina's frowning. "But we'd be lying, then."

"Not for long," Artie says quickly. "Just until they look into it, then we can tell them. This is just a shortcut around bullshit arguments."

Sam is studiously not offering his own opinion, but Artie's sure he agrees with him.

"You know," says Tina, "Sometimes Rachel has good points, even if she can be a pill."

Artie waits, and so does Sam.

They can see Mr. Schuester approaching the choir room from down the hallway.

"Whatever," she says. "Just... call him yourself, then. I don't like this."

Artie clucks his tongue. "It'll be fine," he says dismissively.

Tina seems annoyed now, and moves to go sit by Brittany.

Artie catches Sam's eye and rolls his eyes, smiling.

_Girls._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks: to Steph for pointing out lots of problematic things in this chapter's first draft & giving me lots of notes, to wintercreek for many comments & helpful notes about characterization, to were_duck for comments & enthusiasm, to backitup_baby for lots of notes on plot/pacing, and to paperwar for many notes (this not being their canon, even!!).
> 
> & to you, reader, for sticking around for chapter 3 after an inexcusable length of time!
> 
> \---  
> Warning! This chapter is the most violent yet. Roofies happen, rape does not. If you would like more detailed information about what to expect, tweet me, send me a tumblr ask, etc., and I'll help you out.

 

October  
Washington, D.C.

Kurt’s footsteps are almost silent compared to Rachel’s clomps echoing in the marble hallway. They stop outside the door that has “CONGRESSMAN BURT HUMMEL” on the door. He pulls a key from his pocket, unlocks the door, and holds it open for Rachel.

He and Santana are both in the habit of escorting her everywhere they can after what happened to her at Yale. Rachel had pretended to protest at first, but it’s pretty clear that she loves the attention.

He is mildly annoyed with Quinn for having given this mission to them through Artie. It would have been a lot easier for him to just talk to her directly. Instead, Artie had called to relay her instructions. It’s not like Quinn contacted any of them often lately, so Kurt hadn’t given it much thought. Artie told him that Quinn needs to know what the CIA records say so that she knows what Skull & Bones thinks about her. She needs to know what kind of reputation she has, but the only people outside the organization who have access to her records are members of Congress. Well, specifically in the House, members of the Committee on Foreign Relations. As it happened, Foreign Relations is one of Burt Hummel’s two committee assignments.

“Hey, so what did Finn say when you called him yesterday?” asks Rachel, and Kurt rolls his eyes.

“We talked about boot camp and my shift at work, Rachel. You know I can’t talk to Finn about this stuff any more.”

“I know, I know. I just wondered if you’d found a way to let him know we were coming to Washington.”

“No,” he says, and is grateful to himself for making a point of never calling Finn from inside the apartment where she can hear him and over-analyze everything he says.

Rachel pulls the chain on one of the desk lamps. In unspoken agreement, they avoid turning on the fluorescents because doing so will alert passersby that they’re here. Thankfully, the House is in recess and his dad is campaigning in Lima. His staffers have still been here taking care of the day-to-day business but today they’re at his dad’s event.

He stops as his eyes rest on the faded quilt folded neatly at the end of the leather couch, his breath hitching for a beat. He knows that his dad just sleeps on the couch in the office rather than renting an apartment in DC with astronomically high rent. He didn’t know that his dad had brought one of the last blankets his mom had pieced together before she died.

“These desks are really jammed in here,” says Rachel, pulling him back to the present. “Can’t your dad get a bigger office?”

“No,” Kurt chuckles. “There aren’t many freshman Democrats right now, and Dad’s the newest one so he gets the tiniest office. The Republicans get bigger offices because they’re the majority party in the House.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Rachel says while Kurt moves a stack of pocket Constitutions to the side of one of the desks, well out of his way.

“Welcome to politics, sweetie,” he says. He flips on Eric’s computer, as his desk is less cluttered than Melanie’s. The pictures hanging on the walls are familiar because he’d spent a week here in June, sitting sullenly at the intern desk while waiting for the pain of breaking up with Blaine to subside. He’d considered just working for his dad before sucking it up and making the move to New York with Rachel. Carole had been the one to convince him that filling his resume with jobs given to him by his dad wasn’t the best way to start off in the world.

“Let’s focus on the task that Quinn has assigned us. Do we need to go somewhere? Don’t members of Congress use the Library of Congress to find information?”

“Umm, I think only certain kinds,” says Kurt. “The CRS - Congressional Research Service - has a website that you can only access from congressional computers. I should be able to find what we’re looking for, I think. I spent a lot of time looking at files that week I was here in the summer.”

“What did you look up?”

“Testimonies given to Senator McCarthy during the Red Scare, State briefings on the last five years’ worth of visits to France, and, once I realized I could read them, about every communication I could find from the White House to the British royal family.” He can feel his face flushing when he mentions the royal family.

“Maybe we can check on Prince William when we’re done,” she says in a stage whisper.

“Yeah, I guess this won’t take long,” he says. “I’ve got the website up now. We’ll see if Quinn Fabray gets A’s in Secret Society School, too…” He trails off as he reads the links beneath Quinn’s name.

“What?” asks Rachel, getting up from her chair and stepping around the desk to see the monitor for herself.

For a split instant, he considers lying to her. But there is no way.

It’s suddenly clear to him that Quinn never asked Artie to get him and Rachel to come here.

“Artie, that stupid little…”

“Kurt!” hisses Rachel, looking at the monitor but not knowing where to start. “Just tell me…”

“Here.” He points at the screen.

Underneath LUCY (QUINN) FABRAY - AGE: 19, there’s a sub-header: “Training Assignment: Assassin, Spy” next to a picture of Quinn in sunglasses, carrying an enormous gun.

He can hear Rachel’s sharp intake of breath, and notices out of the corner of his eye her fingers flying to the gold cross hanging from her neck while they both read in silence.

There is a list of orders:

> September 3, 2012: Accompany mission in Dubai  
>  September 5, 2012: Assist in detainment of Iranian scientists  
>  September 28, 2012: Protect Israeli tourists in Taiwan

He skims over phrases like Syrian rebels and Pakistani informants and Hezbollah.

Rachel’s voice is a little brittle when she says, “Kurt. Quinn never said anything about leaving the country… what is all of this?”

Kurt just shakes his head. Rachel turns toward him. “Kurt, what does this mean? She’s an assassin?”

“I don’t know, Rachel. I guess it means Quinn hasn’t been telling us everything.” He’s pulling his phone from his pocket. “I think it means that Quinn didn’t send us here to look up her file, though. I don’t think she would have wanted us to see this.”

“Then Artie—” Rachel furrows her brow. “Why would he do that? I don’t understand why he would know something about Quinn that we don’t know! Nobody else has seen Quinn except for Mercedes and Noah….”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“We should call Quinn,” says Rachel.

“No, she said we have to let her contact us.”

“Artie, then. Tina. We need to find out….how can she be an assassin?”

“I don’t know, Rachel! I thought she was just learning how to do spy stuff.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I guess this isn’t really that different.”

“This is so messed up,” she says, standing up and reaching for her coat. “I just…why did Quinn lie to us about it? Why didn’t she tell us?”

“I don’t know!” says Kurt. “I’d also like to know why Artie didn’t tell us what he’s doing.”

Kurt pulls his cell phone out of his pocket.

“You’re going to call him now?” asks Rachel.

“Uhh…yeah,” says Kurt.

“I don’t really think we have time…” Rachel trails off when she sees the look on his face. Slumping into the chair again, she takes the opportunity to click around some more on Quinn’s CIA profile while he dials Artie’s number. She’s settling in to rest her chin on her hand when Artie’s voice comes over the phone, still glancing over at the frosted door window occasionally to see whether anyone’s outside.

“Hey,” Artie says a little cautiously.

“This is Kurt,” he says, biting out the words.

“Hey, bro. What’d you find out?”

“Well, I definitely found out more than Quinn wanted us to know.”

“What do you mean?” Artie asks carefully.

“I mean that we didn’t really find what we expected to find in her CIA file, Artie. So I don’t really think that Quinn’s the one who wanted us to come here and see it.”

“Look, Kurt, I needed—”

“No, Artie, you really didn’t.”

“Kurt, you have to understand—”

“Kurt, please don’t blame Artie,” Tina’s voice breaks in. Of course - they’re all having lunch right now at McKinley. “We’re putting you on speaker…we’re in the choir room, no one else is here.”

“Oh, was this someone else’s idea?” Kurt asks acidly.

“I want to believe in Quinn - we all do,” says Artie. “But we had to make sure that all of this is for real. That she didn’t manipulate Mercedes and Puck to do something for the wrong side, you know?”

“Why would Quinn do something like that? Where did this doubt come from?” Kurt asks. “Why would anyone doubt Quinn in the first place?”

“Some people have good reasons to doubt Quinn,” says Sam, speaking slowly.

“I certainly hope this didn’t start with you, Sam!” says Kurt.

“No…” Sam’s voice is small.

“You know what, I don’t really care where the idea started. It was clearly Artie’s idea to send us here, and Artie’s the one who lied about it. Why didn’t you just tell us you thought something might be up with Quinn? Why lie?”

“So he wouldn’t have to argue with you guys, God!” There’s no mistaking Sugar’s exasperation, even though she’s clearly the farthest away from the phone.

“Right, well that worked out really great for you,” says Kurt. “Because we are now!” He pauses for a minute, but nobody says anything. He hopes they feel bad. “Don’t lie to us again, Artie.”

He hangs up.

He’s expecting a lengthy reflection from Rachel on the state of their friendships with everyone at McKinley, but she’s engrossed in the text on the screen, and Kurt realizes she’s browsed well out of the descriptions of Quinn.

“What’d you find?” he asks, giving a cursory glance to the computer screen.

Rachel is speechless, which alarms him.

Kurt leans forward to start reading the e-mails Rachel’s pulled up. Large swathes of text are blacked out, but there are enough words to have an appreciation for what’s being discussed. After about half a minute, he can feel the bottom fall out of his stomach.

He doesn’t look at Rachel, though. Can’t look away from the screen.

His fingertips come to rest on his lips in horror. Rachel’s slowly turning in her seat to stare at Kurt.

“Is this real?” she whispers.

“Close the window, close it,” he hisses. “We never should have come here…my dad could get in trouble, I think…ughhh, oh my God…” He rubs his palm over his mouth while Rachel clears the browser history.

While they’re waiting to make sure the computer shuts all the way down, she starts again: “Every page ended with that same blurb - that the full documents are at that address in Chicago? What is it?”

“I don’t know, Rachel, it must be part of the CIA’s storage policy. I’ve never read it before.”

“Kurt, how can they—”

“Not now, Rachel! Pick up your bag, we have to go.” He’s pulling hand sanitizer wipes out of his messenger bag, wiping down the keyboard, the mouse, the arms of the chair, the sides of the desk, the light switches.

“Is that really necessary?”

When he doesn’t answer, she changes tack. “We need to call Quinn.”

Kurt wants to call Quinn, too. He wants to talk to his dad, ask him whether he knows about what they just read. If anyone’s doing anything about it.

But they can’t call anyone - they can’t.

Silenced for the moment, Rachel picks up her phone and her backpack.

Kurt wrests the phone out of her hand, shoving it into his coat pocket. “We can’t call Quinn, Rachel, we can’t tell anyone what we saw here today; I mean it, no one.”

He hands Rachel her coat, crossing the room quickly while he continues, “Not Santana, not anyone else. I mean, Quinn, yes, but not until she contacts us. But nobody else. No one can know. Let’s just go, come on.” He’s grabbing at her hand and pulling it, determined to get her out of the room and on the way to the train station before she can start rhapsodizing over how freaked out she is.

In the hallway, he shuts the door and locks it, wiping the knob with another disposable cloth soaked in hand sanitizer. In the echoing hallway, Rachel’s fallen quiet again, paranoid that someone will overhear them.

Walking briskly, they almost trip as they run smack into a guy rounding the same corner who looks like he’s in his twenties, wearing a suit. He smiles at them both, and Kurt’s appreciating that he’s pretty good-looking when the man does an unmistakable double-take looking at Rachel.

“You kids need any help finding someone’s office?” he asks, stepping so that he’s in the middle of the hallway.

“Nope, we’re actually just leaving!” he says over his shoulder, grabbing Rachel’s hand firmly.

Outside the building, Rachel says, “He knew me, Kurt, he recognized me - did you see his face?”

He had. He doesn’t know what to say, though. “Maybe he’s part of Skull and Bones too,” he says slowly. “Maybe a lot of them know who you are?”

“What does that mean, though? Are they looking for me, then? Why else would they share my picture?”

“I don’t know, Rachel. I don’t know.”

 

New York City

Santana runs her thumb over her fingertips, examining the dry skin there.

Seriously, fuck collating.

It’s still only 2:35, but she’s felt ready to kill the other interns since about 9am. While she’s stuck here all day, they come and go, according to their class schedules. When not in class, they brag about being in school.

It’s not like they know her grades were actually pretty decent for being a cheerleader.

Also doesn’t help that she only got this job because one of the partners here went to college with her dad back when he was pre-med.

“When you’re done with that, would you run across the street and get me a latte?” Santana looks up at Larry, 26-year-old jackass who spends every waking minute in this fucking law firm.

“Sure, Larry,” she says, trying to sound happy, and not sarcastic. She fights the urge to roll her eyes as he recites every feature of his desired latte.

It’s nice to actually be outside when her phone vibrates. The rules about computer use and cell phone use have never been made explicitly clear, so she avoids using them around her co-workers.

Catching up gave her something to do at night, anyway. Having socially-fucked friends and being piss-poor wasn’t yielding the most interesting social life.

God, her life was pathetic.

She thumbs her phone on to read a text from Quinn. All it says is:  
 _Watch her tonight._

She tilts the phone horizontally so that the keyboard expands.  
 _I always watch her. Fuck off._

She’s so sick of Quinn’s bullshit. Watch Rachel - for fucking real? It’s the only instruction she’s ever been given by Quinn. It’s not like there’s anything about it for her to forget.

Kurt and Rachel are supposed to get back from D.C. early this afternoon. Thanks to Kurt’s 3-hour shift that evening, Santana’s been able to convince Rachel to go to a bar with her, through some act of God. Seriously, Kurt’s hours suck - he’s going to have to get a second job like, yesterday, to pay his bills.

There was a lot of fucking whining on Rachel’s part, but Santana had been adamant. They have fake IDs, they live in New York City, and they’re hot. They’re GOING OUT.

She’s watched Rachel go to class, watched her in the vegan grocery mart, watched her in Rachel’s apartment.

Tonight she’s going to watch her from inside a bar, and Quinn can suck it.

\--

Three hours later, she’s standing in Rachel and Kurt’s bathroom, using blotting paper on her face. Rachel’s been babbling about her trip to DC with Kurt, and what they “found out” about Quinn.

She doesn’t seem to understand that Santana doesn’t really give a fuck. And her insistence that an entire secret organization is out to get her is frankly more narcissistic than thinking their entire high school glee club was created as a vehicle to prepare her for her future career.

Knowing that Quinn’s being trained to be an assassin isn’t that different than knowing Quinn’s a spy, frankly. Bitch is into some weird shit. Santana still can’t have any input on Quinn’s crap, even if Rachel seems weirded out and more neurotic than usual.

After pacing from the bathroom to the kitchen window three times, Rachel says, “Santana, if I tell you something, will you promise not to tell Kurt that I told you?”

“Oh, Christ. Listen, Rachel. We can figure all of that shit out tomorrow. Tonight is about having fun. You need to chill the fuck out. Quinn, Kurt’s dad’s computer, all of that will still be around tomorrow and we can worry about it then. Tonight, for one night, we are not going to talk about it, not going to think about it. Do you have your money?”

Rachel nods, pressing her lips together after having applied lip gloss. “I do want to talk to you, though. Tomorrow? Kurt is practically mentally imploding, and it’s not healthy for me to keep such an important matter to myself. Together, we discovered some very disturbing information, and--”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Santana cuts in before Rachel ignores the deal they just made. “Let’s roll.”

\--

About a block away from the bar, Santana stops and pulls Rachel aside.

“I know this is the first time you’ve ever used your fake. You can’t fucking be nervous. They smell that shit.”

“I can’t not be nervous, Santana, this is illegal. Also, today has been incredibly fraught for me, and I don’t think you understand--”

“Yeah, you took a day trip, whatever. But if you don’t want to lose your fake, you need to like, act the part. You’re not even sure you want to be in this stupid bar, you’ve had this piece of plastic for weeks, you’re paying cash so that you don’t buy too many drinks, yadda-yadda. Focus on other shit.”

“Okay,” mumbles Rachel.

Stepping through the threshold of The Vintage, Santana flashes her fake ID at the bouncer. It’s clear that he wants to actually hold it, so she hands it over as nonchalantly as possible.

Behind her, Rachel does the same thing as she flashes a confident smile at Santana. She had been nervously pouting 90 seconds ago. She’s unreal. What was the point of her freakout if she was going to be fine anyway?! Santana rolls her eyes.

At Santana’s insistence, neither of them are carrying purses. Just something else to keep track of. Any one of Rachel’s purses would be a dead giveaway for her real age anyway, as they’re all tiny pill boxes on long straps that look like something a 14-year-old would carry.

They claim the only two empty seats at the bar, next to a group of douchey-looking guys. She definitely should have found them a gay bar; maybe next time.

They’re looking at a frou-frou craft cocktail menu and Rachel has devolved into deep concentration. The bar’s pretty loud, so Santana leans forward even though she’s shouting, “Are you wondering which one tastes like pink?” she asks, grinning.

Rachel bites her bottom lip as she smiles at the memory of the party they had in her dads’ basement junior year. Fuck, she’s cute when she does that.

What the hell.

Santana wants a martini cocktail, but she orders a beer instead because it’ll take her a lot longer to drink it. Not that she wouldn’t love to get drunk, but she already knows that Rachel gets heinous after a single drink, and she’s not about to set that tone.

After Rachel’s finished her first drink, some blond kid comes over and flashes a smile at Rachel. He’s basically eyefucking her. Santana gives him her best bitch-glare, but he ignores her, which is pretty fucking rude: if you’re trying to hit on a girl in a bar, you’re supposed to woo her friends, too. He asks Rachel about whether she’s in school and where she’s from. Her answers are vague, thank God.

Santana sips her drink, and crunches an ice cube. Her straw’s been discarded on the counter - she hates them.

The people who are dancing are basically right next to their side of the bar. Santana isn’t really surprised when Rachel slides her drink over next to Santana’s arm and then steps a few feet away to be closer to the blond asshole who is…Christ, is that supposed to be dancing?

Sighing, she finishes off the rest of Rachel’s drink in one gulp. Bitch can buy her another one.

She turns around to see how Rachel’s doing with her lumbering creeper, still moving awkwardly to the music.

Well, Rachel’s a better dancer than he is, anyway.

The girl next to her nods at Santana when their eyes catch.

“Hey. You her babysitter or something?” she asks, lifting her chin toward Rachel.

“Something like that,” Santana says. Obviously she wasn’t going to talk about Rachel being chased by prep school assholes. “Girl is socially inept. She needs a guard dog around to make sure she doesn’t start belting out Broadway songs or lecturing non-vegans for eating normal food.”

The girl laughs, and her voice sounds pretty. “Let me buy you another one…what was that, a cosmo?”

“Yeah,” Santana says, smiling at her with renewed interest. Maybe tonight won’t be a total loss after all. “I’m Santana, by the way,” she says, turning to face the bar again with her new conversation partner.

“Nice to meet you, Santana. I’m Brandy…by the way,” she added, matching Santana’s intonation perfectly, clearly flirting.

Brandy’s offering her the replacement cosmo, and she doesn’t want to ruin the mood by telling her it’s actually Rachel’s drink.

Turns out she doesn’t have to, because Rachel and her creeper return to the bar.

“Oooh, you got me a brand new one!” Rachel exclaims, still a little breathless.

Brandy watches Rachel take a drink, and is sucking her teeth a little in what Santana can only presume is irritation. She’s preening - they’ve been talking for four minutes, and this chick is already jealous of Santana paying attention to a different girl.

_That’s right, Santana Lopez has still got game._

They stand around talking for a little while. The creeper, whose name turns out to be Luke, leaves before they even order their next drink. Rachel seems pouty until she makes eye contact with some other boy who starts inching toward them.

“Let’s dance,” Santana says firmly, setting Rachel’s empty tumbler down for her and winking at Brandy, who’s leaning forward, asking the bartender for another replacement drink. This chick must be loaded.

“Maybe we can ignore the stupid boys in this bar for the rest of the night, Berry,” she says, shouting to make herself heard over the music.

Some Kimbra song starts playing, and Rachel throws her hands up in the air, totally ignoring Santana - “Oh, I love this song!” Her hips start swaying and Santana takes a step back, starting to turn to look for Brandy. Rachel moves forward, though, and tugs on her wrist.

“Come onnnn, dance with me, Santana.” Her words are slurring a little hilariously.

Rachel’s singing nonsense words along with the music. She seems a little too sweaty, given how they’ve been standing around most of the evening. Rachel’s hair is swinging, the slight curls bouncing. Her hair looks so much better now that her stupid bangs have grown out.

Feeling bold for a moment, Santana reaches forward, pulling Rachel toward her.

Rachel leans into her hand immediately, turning around to look at Santana.

“Hey, sexyyyy!” Rachel yells, and Santana laughs.

Three songs later, and Rachel’s looking up at her through her eyelashes.

God.

Looking a little closer, she realizes Rachel’s pupils are totally blown.

“Rachel, maybe you need to drink some wa—”

But Rachel has taken this opportunity to rise up on her toes, wrap her arms around Santana’s neck, and kiss her right on the lips.

Santana’s hands go up automatically, like she’s going to pull Rachel’s arms off of her, but they just pause mid-air before drifting back down to Rachel’s hips. Her mouth opens, and Rachel is sucking on her bottom lip.

Jesus Christ.

Something inside her is screaming, “Brittany,” but every other part of her is screaming, “Rachel,” down to her fingertips, covered with Rachel’s hair.

The music is still going, people still moving. She wonders if Brandy will still be at the bar behind her.

Rachel breaks off, humming and smiling at Santana, oblivious to everyone around them. “This is a pretty bar, San’anna,” coos Rachel. “And you…you’re pretty, too.”

“Yeah?” she asks, smiling, and trying to ignore pretty much all of her thoughts.

“Yeah,” murmurs Rachel, but then she stumbles on her way back to the bar. Santana’s starting to feel worried because even _Rachel_ doesn’t usually act like this after so little alcohol.

“Rach…you’ve only had two drinks. You’re going to make us look like amateur hour over here.”

She’s not even looking at Santana, and her eyes are wandering like she’s talking to someone slightly behind Santana. “I’d really like to…lie down.” Rachel reaches for the bar stool but stumbles again.

Santana helps her into the seat and turns to see Brandy standing right next to her.

“Everything alright, Lopez?” she asks, not really sounding all that concerned.

She rounds on her. “How the fuck do you know my last name, exactly?”

She smiles. “You told me earlier. I’m Brandy, remember?”

“No, actually, I didn’t.”

Brandy’s looking annoyed that Santana’s being so confrontational.

Santana puts a hand on her hip and steps forward, getting in her face. “Hey - did you put something in her drink?”

Brandy starts backing away. “No, I think your friend’s just a lush, sorry.”

She’s walking away like Santana’s just going to let her go!

She grabs her wrist and Brandy yanks it. She lets her nails dig into Brandy’s forearm a little bit.

“Why don’t we go ask the bartender what they do with people who use ROOFIES here?” she asks tartly.

She wrenches Brandy’s wrist and tries to change the topic of conversation for anyone who’s listening, saying very loudly, “I didn’t KNOW you guys were together, God! Just let it go. I’ll leave.”

There’s a wide berth around them now, and a bouncer walks over. “You guys need to tone it down. People are just trying to have a good time here.”

Santana glares at Brandy and drops her wrist, but pulls her phone out of her pocket and immediately snaps Brandy’s picture.

Brandy reaches for Santana’s phone, but the bouncer blocks her hand. Brandy turns to the bar for her purse, instead.

“This isn’t over,” she says to Santana, heading for the door. Santana flips her off.

Santana’s ready to tell the bouncer about the roofies and ask what they should do when it occurs to her that she and Rachel aren’t supposed to be in a bar because they’re underage, aren’t supposed to be drinking alcohol, and if they try to go to the police, they’ll probably get drinking tickets, which is pretty much the last thing they need right now.

Next, she’s taking Rachel’s hand and helping her down from her bar stool. Throughout the entire fight, Rachel had just rested her head on her folded arms right on the bar. Santana slides her arm around her back to help keep her upright.

She checks the sidewalk four times before taking Rachel outside and sticking her hand in the air for a cab - fuck everything if she’s going to navigate a subway and the sidewalks with Rachel like this. And God knows if fucking Brandy is waiting for them to stumble past, a block away.

Memories of Yale are strong in her mind as she pushes Rachel into the seat of the cab. Maybe someone’s watching them get into the cab, maybe they’ve been waiting all along to find Rachel here in New York?

Fucking Quinn and her fucking bullshit.

“Where ‘we going, Santana?” Rachel asks her immediately after she’s given the cab driver Rachel’s address.

“I’m taking you home, babe,” says Santana.

Rachel starts singing some song she doesn’t recognize, but she’s singing softly, so Santana doesn’t shush her.

She spends the entire drive turning around in her seat, trying to figure out whether any of the identical cabs are following them.

Then she realizes that if Brandy is part of Skull and Bones, it doesn’t matter whether anyone’s following them - she would have gone to the bar in the first place by following them there from Berry’s apartment.

They already know where Rachel lives.

Her own apartment is so small, though, the living space barely big enough for her own bed, which definitely doesn’t fit two people.

Chances are about zero that these assholes are going to come after Rachel again twice in the same night, though, after that public display.

The plastic car seat exhales as she shifts her weight to face forward again.

Smiling, Rachel takes her hand, still completely dopey and mindless from the fucking roofies.

Santana doesn’t pull hers away.

—

“Hello!” Kurt calls from the kitchen. He doesn’t even turn around.

Santana’s right arm is slung around Rachel’s back, and she struggles forward while keeping Rachel’s head balanced on her shoulder.

“Little help here, Hummel?” she grits.

“Oh my God, what did you do to her?!” He’s running forward to help usher Rachel to the couch, having dropped a spatula with white goop on it onto the floor.

Santana’s handed Rachel off, checked the hallway suspiciously, and is now dead-bolting the door.

“I didn’t do anything!” she snaps. “I think Rachel got roofied.”

Kurt gasps, even as he’s flicking Rachel’s heels off. Her head’s lolling against the back of the couch. It would be hilarious if it weren’t so fucking creepy. How could anyone have sex with someone like this?

“Did she meet someone creepy? Or was it…” he trails off. Santana has had a lot of time to think about this in the cab.

“I don’t know for sure,” she says. “I watched our drinks like a hawk - never left ‘em alone. Hers especially. The only thing I can think of is when Brandy - this girl at the bar - bought a drink she thought she was giving to me. I know it was her. I didn’t notice she was acting weird until after we’d been dancing for a while.”

“God,” says Kurt. He’s setting a pair of ludicrous pink pajamas on the arm of the couch. “You help her into these. I’ll make us some tea.”

He makes his way to the door, setting Rachel’s heels where she’ll find them in the morning. He keeps looking like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t.

A quiet Kurt is almost as creepy as a quiet Rachel.

Focusing on more immediate concerns, Santana bends over Rachel, trying to find the zipper on her fucking dress, which goes down her side.

“Okay, Berry,” she says, as upbeat as possible. “You’re going to get your pajamas on now so that you can go to bed.”

Rachel picks her head up off the back of the couch and immediately puts it on the arm rest. Awake now, she starts giggling as soon as Santana reaches for the zipper. She’s barely even touched her. Then Rachel reaches for her neck and tries to pull her down.

“I liked kissing you the most, Santana,” she stage whispers. Santana feels something hot in her chest, but also freezes as she looks up to meets Kurt’s eyes, which are wide - and now he looks pissed.

“Santana, maybe you could help me in the kitchen, please?”

It’s a ridiculous request because the kitchen is two steps from the couch, but she’s pretty sure she knows what’s coming.

“Sure. Do you mind if I grab a banana or something?”

“By all means. Or even better, take something out of the fridge that contains fat.”

She glares at him, fuck his judgment of what she does or doesn’t eat.

“Why did Rachel say that you kissed?”

“Because we did.” No point in lying about it.

“Santana! That’s— she was drugged, Santana.”

“Well it’s not like I drugged her! Jesus.”

“I’m disappointed in you for taking advantage of her.”

“Look, I hadn’t figured out yet that she was drugged at that point. And for the record, she kissed me.”

“Oh, and you couldn’t have stopped her? It’s not like she’s on top of her game!” he says, pointing at Rachel, who’s now sprawled over the entire couch with her mouth hanging open. “God, I can’t believe you.”

“Whatever. Are we done now? I’ll go put her pajamas on her and get her to wash her face.”

“I think it’s best if you just go home for the night. We’re fine here.” He’s filled the tea kettle with water, and has cranked one of the stove burners to high.

She starts to turn toward the door, but then turns around. Breaking this news is really going to suck.

“I, um. I don’t think I should leave you two alone, actually.”

Kurt looks concerned. “Do you think someone followed you here? Or are you afraid to go home alone?”

“No, I just…I think that Brandy thought the cosmo was my drink. She was trying to roofie me. I think they wanted to separate me from Rachel. Skull and Bones.”

Kurt’s eyes widen. “What makes you think it was Skull and Bones?”

“Quinn said I should watch her. Tonight. So. That’s why I think I should just stay here.”

For a split second there’s pure terror on Kurt’s face. Then that fades, but now he’s looking at her and his mouth is twisting and it’s like the warmth has totally left the room.

“I’m sorry,” he says, tilting his head but not smiling. “Did you just say that Quinn specifically asked you to watch her tonight?”

“Yes, elf-bitch, that’s what I said.”

“…Quinn has texted you three times in the last two months, she asked you to watch Rachel tonight, AND YOU TOOK HER TO A BAR?!”

Well, when he put it like that it sounded dumb.

“I…did watch her! God, Kurt, everything is so fucked up with this Quinn bullshit. But I honestly didn’t think anything was going to happen! We made these plans before you guys went to DC. I just… She and I just needed to have fun. I didn’t think that—”

He’s turned away from her, because the kettle’s screaming. He pours it into a pot, and a metal ball full of tea crap is bobbing up and down.

Finally, he says, “I think they stepped up their game because of what we read in DC. Not just about Quinn. The other stuff.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, feeling a pang of guilt because Rachel had tried to tell her about this before they went out to the bar, and she’d told her to shut up.

“I don’t fully know,” he says. “There was a lot of blacked out text, but…Rachel got to the text after clicking away from Quinn’s page to going into assassinations and the different undercover missions the CIA is doing. There was so much blacked out text that it’s hard to know what was going on, but it sounded like there’s something they’re fighting about.”

“They who - the CIA? Or Skull and Bones?”

“I don’t know. But every page said the original documents are in Chicago. I don’t know why they’d keep physical paper. But that’s not…when we left, in the hallway. We ran into someone, a staffer, I think. But he looked at Rachel and it was like he knew who she was. Like he recognized her.”

“What?! That’s fucking creepy, why would they be watching some girl who was asking about a girl in New Haven?”

“I don’t know…maybe they found it odd she’s roommates with the son of a congressman? Or maybe they keep an eye on everyone who starts sniffing around? I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure it out, and I don’t know why.”

“But if they saw you leaving your dad’s office together, then—”

“Then maybe they decided to try and find out what she knows, for sure?”

Troubled, she looks over at Rachel. “We should call Quinn,” she says finally.

Which is useless, because of course that bitch doesn’t answer.

“Well,” she says, “We won’t fit in my place, so we should stay here tonight. We can figure it out tomorrow. Hopefully Quinn will fucking call us back.” She gets up to check the locks on the front door again, sliding the dead bolt into place.

Kurt checks the locks on the windows, and pulls the curtains shut in the kitchen and each bedroom.

She’s so sick of feeling like she has to be careful, like they have to hide.

\--

She’s slept in Rachel’s bed every other time she’s ever slept over here, but she’s pretty sure that if she so much as looks at Rachel’s bedroom door, Kurt will full-body tackle her, so she ends up sprawling out on the couch, pulling a blanket up to her chin.

After a few hours, she’s pulled out of sleep by a very soft metallic noise.

Santana sits bolt upright, couch cushions shifting beneath her, looking at Kurt and Rachel’s front door. There’s some moonlight coming in from the kitchen window, but it’s not really making it all the way to the couch.

She hears a noise again, coming from behind the door. She sucks in a breath as she kicks off the blankets, standing up.

She watches the deadbolt slide open as if someone turned it - must be a magnet on the other side?

The door opens then, and catches on the chain. A pair of the biggest pliers she’s ever seen slips between the door and the frame, going for the chain.

“HUMMEL, WAKE THE FUCK UP!” she shouts, jumping off the couch and hesitating before grabbing the nearest potential weapon - an empty Izzie soda bottle.

The front door’s open now and she can see two people in hooded sweatshirts, backlit by the hallway so she can’t see their faces. They’ve stopped short, and then the slimmer of the two advances toward her.

She can hear Kurt step out of his room and then immediately go back into it, probably for his phone.

The sweatshirt-wearing asshole in front of her is Brandy, she realizes with a start. “Get the fuck out,” she says loudly, hoping that the noise will wake Rachel up.

“Miss me?” Brandy asks, smiling. The other guy is already walking toward Rachel’s room.

Santana’s backing away unconsciously, and realizes that the entire couch is now between her and Rachel’s room. Fuck this bitch, is all she can think, looking at Brandy’s smug face.

She can hear Kurt’s voice murmuring quickly in his bedroom, but there’s no way the police are going to get here in time.

“HEY!” she yells, partly just to hear herself, partly to maybe scare the guy in Rachel’s room. Brandy’s stepping toward her again. Holding the neck of the soda bottle firmly, she smashes the bottle against the wall, leaving the bottom half in jagged edges.

Brandishing the broken bottle in front of her, she backs up quickly, pedaling toward the door to Rachel’s bedroom. Brandy’s still smiling, but it’s not like the other guy can take Rachel out through the window, and now she’s at least successfully blocked the doorway for the moment.

“You should sit this one out, Santana,” says Brandy.

She can hear Rachel’s voice, but can’t really tell if she’s crying out or yelling. Everything’s happening too fast. Adrenaline.

“Not a chance, bitch,” she says, holding the bottle up.

Brandy starts laughing, and then moves quickly, ducking forward to swing at Santana.

Santana slashes wildly, cutting a wide arc into Brandy’s cheek.

Brandy doesn’t bother pressing her hand to the cut, just reaches back and pulls something out of her back pocket.

“Why don’t you come closer, Brandy, I’ll twist the bottle right into your fucking eyes.”

Still in Rachel’s bedroom doorway, Brandy swings a fist at Santana’s face, and she ducks, face close to her other clenched fist, which she realizes is holding a gun.

She moves to the right, and then kicks Brandy swiftly on the side of knee. Santana knows it’s not going to do much damage because she doesn’t even have shoes on, but it gives her a second as Brandy shifts her weight to her other leg. She rushes forward and buries the broken glass edges of the soda bottle right in the middle of her face, sinking jagged edges into her eyes.

Brandy’s scream is ear-splitting, and she sinks to her knees, hands going up for her face, forgetting that one of them’s holding a gun.

Her screaming is pretty fucking annoying so Santana yells louder than she does, slapping the gun out of her hand.

“That’s how we do it in Lima Heights, jackhole.”

She realizes the bottle in her hand is now dripping blood.

She looks forward now, through the doorway, and sees the dude trying to pick Rachel up, but the girl is basically a feral cat, reaching right for his eyes, and then for his left hand, which as a gun in it. Smashing a glass perfume bottle into his face, she runs for the door, running smack into Santana. She grabs Rachel’s arm and pulls her to the side of the door frame so she doesn’t fall over Brandy.

With both of them in the living room, the guy has no choice but to come out where they are. He pushes past Brandy, apparently not giving a shit that she might be blinded.

Santana reaches down for Brandy’s gun, and Rachel’s yanking her hand quickly, pulling her out of sweatshirt-man’s way. His gun’s out now, but she barely registers it - she has a gun now, too.

She catches movement out of the corner of her eye and sees Kurt sees standing in front of the door, now closed again, and he’s relocked the key-lock and the dead bolt, and also turned on the lights, thank God. He’s holding his twirling sai knives in front of him.

His phone’s lying on the couch and everyone can hear the 911 operator saying, “No, DO NOT approach him, do not pick up any weapons, stay in your room, hello? Are you there? Pick up the phone, Kurt…”

She knows his knives are intended for spinning and decoration (like his tryout for West Side Story, junior year), but the way he’s holding them makes it clear he knows how to handle them, at least.

“You’re not getting out unless we let you out, motherfucker,” says Santana. She raises the gun in her hand to aim at his face. “Put your gun down.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see red and blue lights washing the bedroom behind them.

“The police are here,” Santana says quickly, “Don’t be a dumbass.”

If looks could kill, Kurt would have impaled her right then and there.

Maybe you’re not supposed to call guys with guns dumbasses, but like she’s ever done this before. Besides, she’s got a gun, too.

“I’m not kidding, you can look out her bedroom window and see the lights,” says Santana. “You’re done here.”

The intruder points the gun at Kurt and says, “Open the door and move away.” He turns around and steps to pull Brandy up roughly by the arm. She’s swearing at him, but he doesn’t say anything back. Brandy’s the one who lost her gun and gave up all their control, anyway.

Santana pulls Rachel back a few steps, still pointing Brandy’s gun straight at the asshole leading Brandy toward the door.

Kurt’s undone the deadbolt, and and stepped back from the door.

She looks at Brandy uneasily, but all she can see on her fingers is blood, nothing that looks like… eyeball.

Hoodie-man opens the door to the hallway, and mutters to Kurt, “Stop digging into shit. Not that it’ll help you now.”

They’re out and into the back stairwell, Brandy moving surprisingly quickly for having had her face turned into raw hamburger.

The three of them stand there not knowing what to do when a police officer enters the hallway and approaches, hand on her gun, but not yet having drawn it.

“They went down the back stairwell, they’re not here any more,” Kurt says quickly.

The cop leaves, and Santana sets Brandy’s gun on the coffee table.

Kurt pads into his room to set down his knives, and the cop comes back in. “They’re not in the building; I called my guys outside. I’m Officer Robertson. Are you guys okay?”

“We are now, I guess,” says Kurt, stepping forward to shake the cop’s hand. Santana realizes Rachel has a death grip on her left hand. She doesn’t even remember Rachel taking her hand.

Two paramedics come up behind Officer Robertson, who asks, “Were any of you injured tonight?”

Santana shakes her head, but Kurt says, “We think that Rachel was roofied at a bar tonight.” One of the paramedics steps forward and smiles at Rachel, starting by taking her pulse.

Officer Robertson asks her and Kurt a million questions about what happened and in what order. Someone takes pictures of the broken door chain, the bottle, a couple of spots of blood on the carpet.

“Had you ever seen those people before?” Officer Robertson’s asking.

Santana relays her entire evening at the bar with Rachel and Brandy (well, most of it).

With a sudden revelation, she turns toward the coffee table to pick up her phone and show Brandy’s picture to the cops, but can’t find it. “I know I took her picture, just let me find my phone.”

She plucks her iPhone out of her coat pocket, finally, but can’t find Brandy’s picture. “Did this picture not even fucking save?! Goddamnit!”

She couldn’t even save a picture on her fucking phone - she was ready to kill someone.

“Santana - calm down. Just describe everything you remember about her.”

Santana did, but still felt angry. How many black women lived in New York City? Brandy was pretty, but that was true of lots of young women.

Fucking nothing was going right.

After Santana and Kurt had given all the details they could remember, Officer Robertson asks, “Anything else going on that I should know about?”

Santana does her best to not look at Kurt; she assumes he’s doing the same thing.

Officer Robertson stands up. “Look, I’m sure your problems are really complicated and there’s no way I could possibly understand them.”

She’s being sarcastic as fuck, and Santana kind of loves her for it.

“I’m glad you’re still smart enough to call the cops when someone breaks into your apartment and tries to kidnap someone. But you should have called us when you realized Rachel had been roofied.” Well, that was true. “You guys have seen a lot of action tonight,” she said carefully, as if implying she knows there is more going on than what they’re telling her.

Santana’s listening, but she doesn’t say anything. Neither does Kurt.

“Don’t be a dumbass, is what I’m saying.”

“Yeah, okay,” mutters Santana.

Officer Robertson pulls a business card out of her pocket and gives it to Santana. “I know you’ve told me everything you can think of. But tomorrow you’re going to think of something else. Always happens. When you do, I want you to call me.”

Santana doesn’t let herself look at Kurt, but she knows they’re thinking the same thing. Maybe they should just tell somebody else what they know about Skull and Bones. What happened to Rachel at Yale. Let somebody else take care of everything.

The paramedic guys have finished examining Rachel. They tell her that she won’t be able to remember everything from when she was at the bar, but she should be okay going forward.

Officer Robertson writes down a case report number which will show up in the police blotter a couple weeks from now - Rachel and Kurt will need it for their renters’ insurance claim, or something.

Everyone finally fucking leaves. Some of the neighbors are standing in their doorways watching cops leave.

Rachel sullenly slides the locks shut, except for the chain slider, which hangs in two pieces.

All three of them stare at the door for a minute, and then they end up pushing the couch in front of it - a habit nobody will be able to shake for months.

Rachel hugs Santana tightly, and then takes her hand to pull her along to the bedroom. Kurt hesitates, but then goes to his room and returns with his own pillow.

Lucky that Berry has a queen bed, anyway.

They curl around each other carefully, exchanging a few words about how unreal the night has been before falling into silence.

Nobody sleeps.

—

In the morning, Santana’s the last one to get out of bed. She’s spent the night with her eyes closed so that she won’t look at Rachel. As if she needs to deal with that on top of everything else. Christ.

Kurt’s at the stove, looking broody and way more resigned than last night when they’d argued in the same space.

Rachel’s already sitting on the couch with some kind of hot cereal with berries on the top.

Nobody’s talking.

“So,” Santana says, “Are we going to find out exactly what the fuck is in those documents? I’d like to know what is so fucking important.”

“Wait,” Rachel starts, then stops to swallow some cereal. “Kurt told you?”

“Last night, when you were passed out on the couch,” confirms Kurt. “Not…everything, though.”

“Well,” Rachel sets down her spoon and then looks at Kurt as though she’s seeking approval. He nods. “Although many details were blacked out, we still read something majorly important and scary.”

“Obviously,” said Santana, gesturing at the front door.

“We do know a little more than what I told you last night, though,” said Kurt.

“Okay - and?” She was seriously ready to deck them both.

Until Rachel leaned forward and told her.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be more to this fic, but please know that I am a very slow writer due to IRL things. In the meantime, [you could check out the fic's playlist.](http://laceblade.dreamwidth.org/603512.html)


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